


The Path Less Traveled Probably Has Bears

by ImaniJoain



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Brothers, F/M, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 16:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 37,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29493147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImaniJoain/pseuds/ImaniJoain
Summary: Paz Vizsla loves his heavy repeating rifle, his covert, his beskar vibroblade, his Creed, and his high-jule blaster pistol with custom grips and bio-signature lock. In that order.  And a good meal. And his brother - most of the time.He does not love uninvited guests, running errands, being subtle, or sometimes - like right this *shabuir* instant - his brother.Finding his footing on the new Way that Din has sent the Tribe down is quickly climbing his list of things he does not love. Until he meets someone who can change his mind.A/N: Seventeen chapters so I can make a single joke, but I'll get you there.
Relationships: Paz Vizsla & Din Djarin, Paz Vizsla/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 52
Kudos: 65





	1. Episode I: The Party Don't Start Til I Walk In

Paz Vizsla did not enjoy field trips. Unlike his childhood friend, Paz had always found the warm security and tight quarters of the Tribe’s covert vastly superior to the cold, lonely emptiness of space. Although, they were both preferable to the dimly lit, alcohol soaked private cantina he now found himself in. It had taken a bribe to one of Din’s old contacts and threats of bodily harm to the club’s owner, but Paz had secured a seat in a forgotten corner of the bar. The front entrance was to his right. _Two blaster shots to the bouncers and a well placed kick to the door hinge._ The archway opening to the gambling pits was to his left, blasting music and pulsing red lights. The access was partially concealed by heavy, expensive fabric. _Rip down the cloth, fling it at the weapons check desk. Flamethrower. Chaos. Back exit._ Directly in front of him were a few tables and then the massive bar that was doing a brisk, discreet business in several flavors of spice as well as exotic drinks. _Flip table, charge with it as a shield. Crush bartender, jump onto bar, kick spice sample box up into ceiling fans. Sonic grenade into crowd. Throw full weight against opposite window and brace for impact with river below._

Despite the possibility of violence, Paz sincerely did not want to be on that planet, in that cantina, planning exit strategies. Paz belonged back at the covert. This sort of mission was Din’s job, but Din was not available.

The Tribe’s most successful beryoa had been run ragged in the last few months, securing funds and supplies for the covert, avoiding remnants of the Empire, dodging an insultingly lackluster New Republic effort to find him, and keeping off of Bo Katan’s radar - all while stubbornly ignoring his destiny. His duty. Paz thought Din needed a swift knock to the helmet to make him see clearly. A good portion of the Tribe thought maybe he had already taken one too many knocks and that was the problem. The Armorer, however… Paz huffed out a breath and rolled his shoulders, feeling the itch in his muscles to punch something or shoot someone. Maybe both.

The Armorer thought that Din needed time to reconcile himself with his new title and to find the next Way. The true Way of the Mandalore. The Way that would lead the Tribe, and all Mandalorians, home. Paz would never question the Armorer. In addition to being the spiritual leader of the Tribe she was a formidable warrior who had never met her match.

He would never question the Armorer _out loud_.

In his head he questioned a lot. He questioned whether Din was ready to be Mand’alor. He questioned if he _should_ be Mand’alor. It was pretty obvious that Din didn’t want it. He questioned if the Mandalorians even needed a new leader. His own clan history was a clear testament to how much damage the wrong person in the position of Mand’alor could do. Not that Din was anything like the power hungry Mand’alors in recent history. He did not demand followers. The Tribe had accepted Din as their rightful ruler, even without his ever asking for acceptance. He had proved his worth many times over.

Paz questioned if Mandalore was worth all the fuss. He questioned the need to return to a planet that had been the nexus of so much destruction and loss for their people - especially when they had such a powerful future ahead of them. One where they could thrive, once again grow their numbers, train and find security without the eyes of the galaxy upon them.

He questioned being sent on a surreptitious retrieval mission despite being the least discreet Mandalorian in the whole covert.

_For a loom._

Paz gritted his teeth and scanned the exits again. Four more spice addicts had pulled up stools at the bar and were chatting animatedly. A scantily clad figure, species and gender undetermined, walked out of the gambling pits clinging to the arm of a Nikto. If Paz had been sent chasing across the Outer Rim for beskar - no problem. He was happy, proud, to do so. A cache of weapons? _Haran_ , even a single excellent weapon? His role in the Tribe was to guard the armory. It was a sacred duty. Weapons were his religion. Of course he would find and retrieve any weapon that could be used to protect and defend Mandalorians. The Armorer had not sent him to find a weapon. She had sent him to find a loom. A. Loom. _An artifact of Mandalorian history and lore_ , she had called it. Paz was skeptical. There hadn’t been any Mandalorian artifacts other than armor and weapons since the fall of Mandalore, and he very much doubted his ancestors had cherished textiles so much that they created kriffing _lore_ about it.

The Armorer had sent him, so retrieve it he would. That did not mean he had to enjoy the mission. He hadn’t even been able to bring his heavy guns.

His silent, hulking presence had kept the cantina staff from offering him ill-advised drinks or other service, but he had been there for hours and if his mark didn’t show soon he would have to break off the surveillance to head back to his ship and get something to eat. Unlike Din, Paz was not all that interested in finding out how long he could go without _luxuries_ like food, sleep, or water. A fluttering of curtains forestalled any need to make plans for dinner.

A figure wrapped head to toe in black emerged from the gambling den. A shapeless tunic with wide sleeves hung nearly to the knees of thick black leggings. Low boots, almost slippers, covered narrow, humanoid feet. A tightly wrapped scarf completely concealed the forehead and hair while a veil obscured the neck and lower face. All that was visible of the person was its fingertips and the medium-toned skin around dark eyes. _Human_ , Paz assessed, then was surprised to make another observation, _unarmed._ It scanned the perimeter, checking exits, eyes flicking over the same creatures that he had and lingering on blasters, knives, and other weapons before falling on him. Through his visor, Paz watched for any hint of emotion. He switched over to heat sensors and found that the person was flushing. Enhancing and focusing his audio receptors he listened to their heart rate speed up and then smooth out again disturbingly quickly.

_Anxious? Or frightened? Eager for a fight, maybe._ There were a surprisingly large number of fools who wanted to test themselves against a Mandalorian. None who had ever done so against him and lived - and certainly none as poorly prepared as the figure in black. He switched back to normal vision. They weren’t even wearing any armor, just many layers of light cloth. It wasn’t even duraweave. They slid to the side of the curtained doorway and continued watching the room. Paz did not have time to study them further as three more similarly dressed people silently padded into the cantina.

His senses were on high alert, his hand on his blaster, watching them watch the room. After a few moments, wherein the bartender seemed to recognize the new patrons and paled in a surprising show of fear for a twi’lek, two more figures entered flanking a third. The Verpine in the center was clicking his mandibles audibly, apparently speaking into a communicator strapped onto one of his chitinous arms. Paz did not know the language, but he could recognize the tone of the insectoid warbles and soft shrieks as one of frustration. On either side of him were copies of the first covered guard - for that was what they clearly were. These were wrapped in red and kept close positions to what Paz assumed was their employer while those in black rotated and circled, pushing out into the room to leave an empty buffer around the three in the center.

One of the drunks at the bar stretched his back in a careless move and a small data stick slipped out of his hand and toward the closest figure in black. Paz doubted anyone else noticed, but it was quickly caught and handed to one of the red guards, then to the Verpine. The drunk left in a hurry

_Finally_ . Paz pulled his blaster under the table and prepared to stand. He had waited too long for someone in the overpriced cantina to try to pass the information he was looking for. Unfortunately, before he could move to retrieve it, all _haran_ broke loose.

“Take them!” The tallest of the spice addicts yelled, abandoning his stool. Paz cursed to himself, suddenly realizing they had only been pretending to be intoxicated. He stood, drawing his blaster and shooting one of the four men with weapons at the bar.

The room exploded into chaotic motion. The figures in red pulled their boss in close, herding him into a corner while the black-clothed figures began to dance.

Paz had no other words to describe the grace of their motion. With a gravity-defying stretch and a curve of spine and arms the one closest to him made a parabola with their body, head skimming the floor and dodging a series of blaster bolts. Another guard leaped onto the bar, slippered feet moving silently and so quickly Paz almost had trouble keeping track, before lashing out. The bartender fell into the shelves at her back, luuks breaking bottles and dripping blood. Her slug-thrower dropped to the ground with a sound that was lost under the general cacophony of the fight and the heavy beat of music. The lights went out, leaving the room bathed only in the red, flickering glow from the gambling den. Paz switched his visor over to night vision. The first guard in black flipped onto their hands, swinging their feet up into the air and over to lock around the neck of one of the addicts. In a continuous, graceful motion they used the momentum of their own body and the weight of their attacker to throw the addict to the floor. Their slippered feet touched down. Paz heard the familiar snap of cervical vertebrae as they twisted, spinning and turning to face their next opponent.

As much as he would have liked to admire their technique, Paz still had a mission to complete. From under the table, he shot the left side red guard low in the belly. They might live, if they received medical attention soon. The other red guard compensated for the loss without flinching, repositioning to stand directly in front of the Verpine. Their head was scanning, searching for the source of the blaster bolt. Paz holstered his gun, slapped a detonator to the wall behind his chair, and crouched while he waited for an opening.

Five more people burst through the front door, blasters drawn and already firing. The two guards in black closest to Paz turned to meet them. The moment he was out of their line of vision, Paz was moving. He surged to his feet. Three long steps across the floor and he would have had the red guard within range for a blade to their chest. A tight grip on his right wrist halted him on this second stride. A hard kick to the inside of his left knee happened so fast he almost did not recognize it, and then his own weight and momentum were pulling him to the ground. Paz shifted tactics as quickly as he could, throwing the knife in his hand, leaning into the fall, and drawing a new weapon. He twisted his right hand, intending to catch his attacker’s before they could move away. Instead of a limb he got a handful of black cloth. He used it to his advantage. Hauling with the considerable strength of his arm he flung his attacker back into the corner, slamming their body against the red guard and the Verpine behind them. Paz got one boot on the floor, the opposite knee still supporting his weight, before the black guard attacked again.

Their hands moved in a blur, smacking away his own attacks with the dull ring of wrapped palms and arms on beskar vambraces. Paz realized almost too late they were herding him, turning him, trying to get his back to the red guard. He managed to swing out his foot, not tripping his attacker but making them stumble. It left him kneeling, but gave him time to draw his blaster again and shoot the addict who had raised a large-caliber slug-thrower to aim at the black guard’s back. Projectiles that heavy would have ripped right through the black guard and into Paz. He couldn’t take the chance it might hit the areas not armored by beskar.

The guard in black righted themselves. Their tunic hung loose, ripped across the front where Paz had grabbed them and gaping to reveal layered black wrappings underneath, a band of caramel skin stretched tight over prominent collarbones. Just under the edge of the face mask, a metal collar glinted.

A heavy weight impacted with his backplate, pushing Paz forward. He rolled with the force, intending to plow into the black guard’s legs, but they jumped over his large body with shocking ease. Blaster in one hand and short vibroblade in the other, Paz gained his feet again and charged toward the guard in black. Surprisingly, they stepped forward as well, into Paz’s space. He should have fired. His training and experience told him that a point blank blaster shot would have taken down the guard, left the injured one in red open, and ended the fight quickly. Paz swept out his left hand, the vibroblade arching across the space between them. There should have been enough warning for a fighter as fast and skilled as the black guard to dodge it, although it would put them out of position and on awkward footing. Instead, the guard leaned into the strike, not raising their arms to defend, but lifting their chin and turning their head.

He was already committed to the attack and could not have stopped it even if he had wanted to; his center of mass was too far forward and his blaster lined up with a bead on the red guard. The tip of the knife slashed skin before catching on the thin metal collar. There was a moment of resistance, but the lesser alloy was no match for a beskar blade enhanced with kinetic energy. A shower of sparks cascaded and the collar split open. At the same time, bony fingers latched onto the edges of his chest plate and pulled them close. They kissed, heads pressing together in a violent mockery of the Mandalorian gesture between intimates. The keldabe could have fractured the guard’s skull if they had put any more force into the movement.

“My thanks.”

The low whisper fogged the bottom portion of his visor. Paz had no time to respond as the black guard slung one arm around his neck and used the grip on the collar of his chest plate to jump. A narrow foot pushed off of his hip and then they swung around, over his shoulder toward his back. Paz was immediately aware of the value of the move. The red guard, Paz’s knife still sticking out of their thigh, was engaged in hand to hand combat with two addicts while another advanced with a blaster. Paz shot the one with the gun just as the black guard landed lightly against his own back, hard knees digging into the unarmored space between his ceramic lower back plating and his backside.

Whispered words transmitted through his helmet. “I will repay you.”

Then the weight on him was gone. From the edge of his sensors he watched the figure, hot blood dripping down their exposed chest, turn to help the two other black guards that were still standing against four more addicts. _Like whomp rats,_ Paz snarled to himself, _where you see one there are three more_ _._ He realized that the bar must have been packed with adversaries also waiting for the data handoff and the chance to steal the prize. _Not today._

If Paz and Din had one thing in common, it was that they did not fail their missions.

He shot one of the addicts fighting the red guard just as the other addict went down, head twisted at an unnatural angle. Under a thick red tunic, the guard’s chest was heaving. They were favoring the leg Paz had stabbed and had blaster burns on their left arm. Still, he had to admire their tenacity when they shifted into a defensive stance. Loud, wild clicks and frantic shrills emanated from the Verpine, but Paz ignored it. He raised his knife hand and turned the blade in a flashy prelude to attack.

Then he shot the red guard.

The Verpine gave up the data stick after only one crunching Mandalorian boot against his chitin, but the sound of city security on the street - perhaps even the New Republic patrol that was stationed planet-side - made Paz rethink his escape route. The sounds of the fight had finally made it past the dying weapons check attendant and into the pulsing loud music of the gambling den. A dozen armed people were moving his way. He slipped his vibroblade back into his belt.

“Give me your knife.”

Paz did not startle, but he did go very still at the unnoticed approach of the bleeding black guard into his personal space. He aimed his gun at their center of mass.

“The only way you are getting one of my weapons is if I am dead.” He punctuated his point by seizing the hilt protruding from the red guard’s leg and pulling it out. He wiped it on their body, keeping his blaster trained on the black guard, and resheathed it.

Their head tilted, black cloth sticking to the smear of blood on their neck and chest. “It is the only thing that can remove our control collars.” Two other black-clad guards stood in the carnage of the bar. One of them shifted their clothing to reveal a thin metal band around their neck. Shouts were getting louder outside. Paz could make out official demands for those inside to stand down. He checked the indicators on his display. He didn’t have time for this.

“You’re slaves?”

Their posture stiffened. “Indentured. We-”

Paz really did not have time for this conversation. He stepped forward, leaving the bleeding one behind and gestured to the other two to bare their necks. He managed to slice through both collars without cutting either of them, although they would doubtless be bruised.

“Get out.” He pressed the activation sequence on his vambrace for the detonator he had placed earlier. Its red lights blinked ominously in the gloom of the bar. The three figures in black had a short, whispered conversation then two of them jumped onto the bar, and from there scrambled inside a ventilation shaft and disappeared. The bleeding one stayed behind, watching him.

“That,” they nodded at his detonator, “is not the best way.”

“I’m aware. You don’t want to be here when it blows.” He nodded his head at the shaft and braced himself. _This is going to hurt._

“You are owed, Mandalorian. You will be repaid.”

“Sure.” Paz was already ignoring them, rolling his shoulders and shifting his weight. “Sounds great.”

The detonator beeped its last and Paz took off at a run. His right shoulder and helmet hit the thick glass window at the same time the charge went off. Red light bloomed behind him and reflected in every shard and sliver of glass flying through the night around him. He hit the water hard, but it was the second impact, against his back, that knocked the air out of him. The bony knees pressing against his kidneys and strong fingers gripping his collar were irritatingly familiar. He kicked against the river bottom, his weight too much for the current to push him downstream, and grabbed a handful of layered cloth just as his head broke the surface. He threw the black guard toward the shore. Their turn, tucking and twisting in midair, was a thing of beauty. Like a perfectly aimed spear, they soared through the air and landed balanced on their feet. _Mesh’la_. Paz was so impressed he nearly forgot to swim.

Shouts behind him and floodlights sweeping the river near where he had gone in gave him focus. He reached the shore with a surge of water over the rocky beach and began a jog, cold liquid sluicing out from under his armor with each footfall. He kept track of the black guard on his sensors. When they did not attack but only followed with light steps, he let them be. Din had mentioned to him more than once that outsiders were sometimes so grateful for a Mandalorian’s help - even if it was unintentional - that they would offer up supplies or information or simply gratitude. Paz didn’t need supplies, information, or gratitude. _I wouldn’t say no to learning some of their fighting technique,_ he thought as he left the edges of town and ran through the sparse forest where he had hidden his ship. _If I had the time._

They watched him silently as he checked the ship’s perimeter and made sure it was ready for takeoff. The Miy'til Starfighter had been a lucky acquisition for the covert, and was Paz’s preferred transport for himself. He had added two ion cannons and a second missile launcher, in addition to reconfiguring the cockpit to better fit his frame. It meant he had to strip out the gunnar seat and reroute weapons to his own controls, but he would rather shoot his enemies himself than have a droid manage targeting. He had settled into his seat and was about to lower the canopy when the guard hopped up onto the wing, leaning out to close the distance so their face was less than a meter from his helmet.

“You accept repayment?” They held out their hand, palm open. It took Paz a moment to focus on the knotted cord being offered. His eyes were first drawn to the calloused, painfully thin fingers past the cloth wrapped over the hand and knuckles. He remembered the protruding collarbones, slick with blood, the obvious sternum, the knobby knees against his back. Paz shook his head and reached for the knotted cord. He did not have time to worry about some underfed slave or explaining that if he did care about repayment for something as simple and easy as slipping his knife under a collar and killing a few people, the worn little rope would not be enough. If it made the fighter feel the matter was closed so they would get the _haran_ off of his ship, he would take it.

“Sure. Thanks.” He tucked the cord into his belt and started the pre-flight sequence. Lights and muffled sounds of the search were growing closer. “I need to go.” They did not get off of the wing, so Paz pressed the button to lower the canopy. In the blink of an eye the black guard had slipped under the closing transparisteel. “Hey,” he snarled, twisting in his seat to look at the tiny open floorspace at the back of the cockpit. “You can’t-”

“You have accepted. I will help you.” They settled cross legged on the floor, leaning back against the closed panels concealing the vacc equipment and weapons locker.

“I don’t need-”

“Patrol ships are approaching.” They tilted their head and once he was listening for it Paz heard the noise too. “Five of them. You should take off.”

Paz swore. He turned back to the controls and cursed the black guard while he fired up the engines and retracted the landing gear. He cursed the informant that had not mentioned the Verpine or its strange body guards while he flew low over the trees to avoid detection from patrols. He cursed the Armorer for assigning him the mission as he returned fire and took down two New Republic x-wings. He cursed Din for forcing the covert to leave Nevarro, for finding the Darksaber, and for changing the Way to a path that apparently required they find items of ‘great lore’ while he broke atmo. He cursed his ancestors for ever making the stupid loom that he was supposed to find as he punched in coordinates. As they entered hyperspace, he cursed his own _buir_ for teaching him the few manners he had which had kept him from throwing the black guard out of his ship and leaving them for the patrols to find. Finally, an hour into their travel, he ran out of things to curse. The ship was silent for a few minutes while Paz thought about the data stick in his pocket, the next step in his mission, and the stowaway behind him.

“You have a very extensive vocabulary.”

He twisted again to look back at his unwelcome passenger. They had removed their head covering and veil, revealing light-colored hair in many tight braids along the scalp and a slender face with high cheekbones and dark lips. _A woman,_ he noted, once her slender neck was exposed. _A woman who is still bleeding._ Her lips twitched and her eyes fluttered closed, long lashes brushing against gaunt cheeks.

“I speak many languages, but I do not know that one you used. Do not worry. I will learn it long before my life debt is complete.”

_Life debt? What-_

She passed out.

Paz lunged to keep her from hitting her head, his long legs nearly tripping him up as he tried to wedge himself into the tiny space behind his chair. He tore the medkit from the wall and applied a bacta patch to her neck while he searched for other, more life-threatening injuries. _Life debt_. If Din’s bad luck had rubbed off on Paz, he was going to feed his friend to a rancor. A horny one. 

* _beryoa - hunter_

_Keldabe - touching of foreheads when wearing a helmet. Done gently, it is an intimate gesture between clan members or romantically involved individuals. Done forcefully, it is a headbutt or an attack that translates roughly to “kiss-off”_

_Mesh’la – beautiful_

_haran - hell_


	2. We Used To Dream Of Livin' In A Corridor

“ _I want to be a monk!”_

“ _Oh, Ona.” Her father_ _did not pay much attention to_ _the young girl entranced with the motions of the practicing monks in the plaza. “We need to make our delivery. The Hutts will not be happy if our family does not meet our quota.”_

_She helped him to unload the fruits and bags of grain that would be taken off-world, but her gaze remained on the figures in white as they practiced their katas. Two figures in black guided their movements, while a single person in red stood on the monastery steps, watching._

“ _But if I was a monk, we would not have a quota. No one would tell us what to do!”_

“ _Hush, child.” Her father did not say anything more, but as they pushed their cart back out through the gateway, guarded by Niktos with blaster rifles, she saw his worried frown._

“- _di'kut o'r nayc beskar'gam. Solus kar'am gebi'shya_ -”

“Stop!” Ona gasped, pushing away the hands that were pulling on her clothing. Immediately, the huge leather gloves retracted, fingers spread and held up. It took a moment for her vision to focus. Leather gloves. One blue vambrace and one bronze on thick forearms. Massive chest protected by blue painted beskar. Helmet. Dark visor reflecting a thin, pinched face. _The Mandalorian. My debt._ She swallowed, suddenly aware of how dry her mouth and throat were. _You owe him for your freedom._ “I am fine. Do you require assistance?”

“Me?” The voice coming out of the helmet was distorted by a vocorecorder, but even deeper than it had sounded in the loud cantina. “You’re the one who passed out.”

Had she? She must have, he had no reason to lie about that, and she only vaguely recalled their takeoff in his ship and a firefight. The view behind him was clearly hyperspace, so she must have dozed off for at least a short while. She took stock of her own body. General aches and pains were nothing new and expected after a fight. The front of her legs were still tender from a punishment she had received the week before, but the injury would not prevent her from standing or defending him, if necessary. She was weak, a bit dizzy, but that was normal towards the end of any long shift, she would feel better after she was allowed to eat again and have a drink of water. Her back ached. Her neck was sore, hot and tender where he had cut away the control collar.

_The collar. He cut it. I’m free. We’re free._

She lightly brushed her fingers near the cut and was surprised to find a wide bandage that covered almost half of her neck. She had always thought she would lose her life when she finally found an opportunity to attempt escape from the Hutts. A minor throat stabbing was practically a gift, in comparison.

“I’ll be fine by the time we land,” she amended, pushing away the heady, almost frightening realization that she would never have to return to the Hutts. She had waited for years, more than a decade for any opportunity. Any opening. To have finally succeeded made her head spin – more than it already was. _Spirits_ , she was so thirsty. Her vision was tunneling despite her efforts to keep her eyes open.

“You’ve lost some blood, but…” His voice faded away.

“ _Our family owes a child for service. Your_ _sister_ _will take over the farm, so you must do this for all of us_ _,” her father_ _ordered quietly_ _, but Ona didn’t listen. She was too excited, too focused on how many children were still in line ahead of her, waiting for their trial._

“ _It will be fine, Papa. You know I am the fastest – an_ _d only_ _Illiam_ _is_ _stronger than me. The monastery will pick me, and once I am a monk, I will protect everyone!”_

“ _You’ll take whatever service assignment they give you and not complain,_ _Ona-”_

“ _Step back,” one of the veiled guards ordered her father. “Step back and let me look-”_

“...look at your burns. _Haran_. It must have been the detonator. I told you to run, _or’dinii_.”

She recognized his voice immediately, although she had trouble forcing open her eyes. “What does that mean?” She rasped. Spirits, she needed to pull herself together. She needed to get up and make herself useful. She owed him, more than he could ever know. Ona would die to protect this Mandalorian who had freed her and her brothers. She would follow where he lead and spend the rest of her life enjoying the ability to talk and laugh and kriffing breathe without asking for permission.

“You’re awake.” He grunted instead of answering. His rough tone was at odds with the gentle way he turned her, laying her on her side in the cramped space. Her knees were curled nearly to her chest, the inside of his thigh pressing against the backs of hers. He radiated warmth through their clothing. He shifted and cold beskar brushed against the thin material of her leggings, making her shiver. “Your shirt is stuck to the flesh in places.” Right. The explosion. Once he brought it up the dull heat and persistent pain of her back took precedence in her thoughts. “I gave you a shot to numb the pain, but it has to be removed before I can disinfect the burns.”

“Thank you.” Ona did not remember ever being offered a way to dull pain. Pain taught a lesson. Pain reminded her to do better, train harder, follow the rules. Or so her masters had always said. As his big fingers slowly separated seared flesh from burnt cloth she was grateful. Grateful that the one owed her life did not adhere to the same philosophy. Grateful that she had found a way out of slavery under the Hutt’s tails. Grateful to have found someone who willing to help. The medicine was working, making her senses dull and soft at the edges.

Grateful that he apparently carried the good drugs and was willing to share.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he muttered. The next pull of her tunic took skin with it and she blacked out again.

_One of the masters blocked her way to the dining hall, and Ona stared up at the brown eyes surrounded by black cloth._

“ _You will go with Master Jaakeith.”_

_She glanced over at the tall woman in red, leading the most elite of the older students to a smaller chamber Ona had never been in. She had been looking forward to having hot oats and honey with the other initiates. Her stomach growled, eager for the first meal of the day._

“ _Why?”_

“ _You will train to guard the Hutts and their allies. It is a great honor.”_

“ _The Hutts? But we train to protect those of our blood...I wanted to-”_

_He bent low, whispering. “Be quiet, child. The Hutts require payment to leave most of our people in peace. Today, the price is you. Now go.”_

“...don’t wanna...wanna go...”

“You’re not going anywhere, _verd’ika_.” Large hands grasped her upper arms and Ona struggled, trying to get away. “No, no, hush, hey! Be still, you’re going to tear any new skin and- _shab_!” Cold metal pressed against her face, her hands were held in a single massive grip and tucked under her chin. The armor under her nose smelled like blaster oil and old forests. Ona had never been in a forest, but she imagined they smelled just like that – clean and dark and woodsy.

“I’m going to give you another shot.” His voice dropped into a mutter. “Hope this dosage doesn’t kill you.”

The Mandalorian. Ona relaxed, finally recognizing his voice. A dermasyringe pressed against her shoulder and the relief was immediate.

“ _They’re going to see you!”_

" _Not if I see them first.” Ona slid out on the narrow ledge, ignoring Aus’ pleas behind her. A single strut spanned the open courtyard between the locked room where monks were held right before a job and the private office of the Hutt’s top enforcer at the monastery. Ona knew – she hoped – she had to be right – that there would be a clue in there about how she could escape. She just needed a diagram of the control collars. Or a deactivation fob. The only time the office was empty was right before a new job, when clients would have to be received in the public courtyard. The courtyard right below her. Sweat rolled down her spine despite the cool night air._

_Her slippers bent and curved with her feet around the strut and she ran, as fast and silently as possible, to the opposite wall. The shutters were vented open, leaving enough room for her narrow fingers to slide in and unlatch them. She swung her legs over the window ledge and raced to access the terminal. Please let it be on, please let it be on._

_The arrogant ass had not even locked down his access. There were a million files, words she didn’t know with letters she couldn’t read in multiple languages. Ona flicked through them quickly, desperately. A clue, a single clue is all-_

_There. It was a bill of sale. Ona knew her numbers, and she recognized the symbol for Imperial credits. On the order was a drawing of the collars; one like hers, and another, more complex looking device with a piece that would trail down the spine and then circle the waist. Ona did not want to know who had been unlucky enough – or defiant enough – to warrant wearing that. There was a warning at the bottom – bold letters in red that she couldn’t read. The meeting in the courtyard was wrapping up. The enforcer would be coming to fetch the monks soon. If Ona was not among them she would be caught. Punished. Death would be a kindness compared to the re-education of the monastery._

_The race back had her blood pumping hard enough to make her chest hurt. She closed the window behind her just as the door opened. Aus and Illiam stepped in front of her, concealing her sweating brow and heaving breath. Ona rewrapped her hand tightly, hoping the blood would be hidden by the black fabric. Hoping the wounds underneath would not heal before she could find someone who could read it for her. A way to break the control collars._

_B – E – S – K – A - R_

_*di'kut o'r nayc beskar'gam - idiot without armor_

_Solus kar'am gebi'shya - one breath closer_

_Haran – hell_

_or’dinii – fool_

_Verd’ika – little warrior_

_shab - fuck_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really prefer an action sequence to an infodump, but sometimes it just can't be helped.


	3. We Can, But We Won't

Paz leaned back on his heels, stretching his back as best he could in the tiny space and listening to the pop of his vertebrae. The girl was out again, lucky for her.  _ Woman _ , he corrected himself. He had been forced to cut off her tunic and then the long strip of cloth that had been wrapped over her shoulders and around her torso to get a look at the burns on her back. If her injuries had not been so severe, he might have blushed at the realization that the cloth was a binding. One that was done extremely tight and thick to conceal  mature curves. Once she was stripped down to her slippers and leggings, the waistband folded to expose the upper edge of a muscular backside, it was also obvious that her maturity was easy to hide because she was riding the sharp edge of starvation.

A burning anger simmered in his chest. She and the other guards had been forced into slavery, risking their lives against their will, and had clearly been viewed as disposable. A warrior with her skills was not disposable. _Or perhaps the hunger was another means of control, beyond the collars._ She had bruises on her upper arms positioned in a way that implied she had been restrained. Old scars crossed her back where the burns hadn’t seared them away and wrapped around her ribs. Paz recognized whip marks. Whoever had put the collar on this woman, they deserved to die. Slowly. Under a Mandalorian boot if Paz could arrange it.

She was shivering again. Paz had arranged the scraps of her clothing as best he could to protect her head and bare skin from the icy cold metal grating of the floor, but she had been poorly dressed to begin with. Although every bacta patch and bandage that had been in his medical kit was now plastered to her skin, they wouldn’t do much to hold in body heat. He unhooked his cape and draped it carefully over her. Unlike Din, Paz actually cared about the condition of his clothes. Although the material was old and worn, it had been meticulously patched when necessary. The length was enough that he could fold it double over her shoulders and chest. There was nothing else he could do except crawl back into his chair and hope she didn’t kick out in her sleep and hurt herself or knock over his jetpack.

He had three hours left in hyperspace to doze and think about what he was supposed to do with the life debt of a half-starved non-Mandalorian. He hoped the drugs stayed in her system that long; her wounds were bad enough, there was no reason she had to be awake to experience them.

When the ship touched down on Ieon VI, Paz was not any closer to knowing what to do with the woman, but he did at least have a plan for his own mission. He bought fuel at a discreet hangar located in the outskirts of the settlement, then relocated his ship several kilometers away. It wouldn’t keep the most determined thieves from finding it, but it would make them work harder to reach the Miy’iil. And when his perimeter security vaporized them, there would be fewer questions than what he would have had to answer in a more populated area. The woman was still sleeping. He wondered for a moment if he might have given her too high a dosage. The prepackaged painkillers were sized for a person weighing twenty kilos more than her, but she was breathing normally. Paz was reluctant to wake her. It might aggravate her injuries, and he would complete his errands faster by himself. He left her a message to stay in the ship and donned his jetpack before taking off on foot.

The planet Ieon was a deathtrap - some even called it cursed - and many of its moons made ‘deathtrap’ sound like ‘festival week’. Out of a thousand natural satellites orbiting the rocky giant world, a mere handful were inhabited. Only a select few of those were hospitable to outsiders. Paz had been to VI before, on the hunt for weapons parts. He hoped a few traders in addition to his fuel supplier remembered him favorably. If not favorably, then he hoped they at least feared him more than any of his potential enemies.

Anyone with any sense would.

“Hey, Mando!” A Kiffar waved a deeply tanned arm, drawing more attention than Paz preferred, but he had good supplies and had always driven a fair bargain.

Paz crossed the street, shifting the sack of goods he had already purchased and ignoring most of the apprehensive looks he received. “Nefesh.”

Nefesh grinned. “It is good to see you again, my friend. I hope your travels have been well?” He did not wait for Paz to respond, but waved him into his shop. It was a short flight of steps up from the street, the reed window coverings were all open to catch any breezes that might relieve the moon’s humidity. If Nefesh were any less scrupulous or helpful, Paz would have considered shooting him just so he could remove his helmet and cool some of the sweat dripping down his neck.

“I have an item I saved back for you, Mando. It is good that you have come by again.”

Paz would have to suffer the heat. He sighed. _This is the Way_. Paz looked over the small strongbox Nefesh had been waiting to show him. The Kiffar had sensed its history, as some of his people could, and he had known it had ties to Mandalore. Paz was no metallurgist, but he spent enough time in the covert armory to recognize it was made of an inferior beskar alloy. _The Armorer should be able to melt it down and purify it again._ _There may be enough for a new vambrace and a helmet for one of the foundlings._ Nefesh had been unable to open it and wanted to bargain up the price for the unknown contents; Paz managed to keep the cost reasonable. Then the Mandalorian pulled out his data stick.

“I need access to a secure terminal.”

“Ah,” Nefesh nodded, gesturing to the back room. “The usual fee?”

“Sounds good. And I need some supplies. Rations. Bacta.” He hesitated for a moment. “A shirt. Smaller than me. And some cloth, if you have any. Something...soft.” He named a length that he thought approximated what the woman had previously wrapped around her chest and then ducked into the back room. He was grateful then, despite the heat in the close space, for his helmet that hid the flush in his face.

It took him an hour to decode the data and another hour to cross reference the information with star charts. By the time he was done, Nefesh had gathered everything into a bulging satchel stacked on top of the strongbox. Paz pulled credits from his belt pouch and had to sort the woman’s knotted cord from the ingots and coins before he could hand over payment.

“Where did you get such a thing?” Nefesh frowned and gestured to the cord.

Paz hesitated again. Nefesh was honest as far as traders went, but Paz had only met him a handful of times. “A...woman gave it to me.”

Nefesh’s eyebrows rose high on his head. “The clothing is for her? She is traveling with you?”

Reluctantly, Paz nodded.

“May I?” Nefesh held out his hand for the cord. For a moment, Paz considered refusing. _It is just a stupid length of string._ He laid it carefully across the trader’s palm. “Ah!” The Kiffar’s eyes widened, then fell closed. Paz knew some Kiffar could sense the history of objects, but he had never actually watched Nefesh do so. “This is an old Spirit Thread. Your woman carries a great weight from her ancestors. How heavy is her debt to you?”

“What is that, Spirit Thread? What does that mean?”

“They are made by the Monks of the Blood. It is a sacred thing, a promise of the past and to the future, although I believe it has many meanings in their belief system.” Nefesh tilted his head as if to examine the expression on Paz’s blank helmet. “It is very heavy - her oath. A life debt?” Gently, Nefesh returned the cord. He crossed his shop, looking through various crates and shelves while he talked. “That is not an offer made lightly, or accepted easily, Mando. Few of her people remain outside of their homeworld, which has been controlled by the Hutts for several centuries. I hope you have the will to shoulder this responsibility.”

Paz scowled. He did not appreciate having his abilities or his character questioned - certainly not by an outsider. He also wondered exactly what the skinny little warrior had gotten him into.

“For her.” Nefesh held up a cloth bundle which he shoved into the satchel. “Five more credits. And be careful, Mandalorian. The Hutts do not take thievery lightly.”

Paz did not correct the man. He hadn’t stolen anything, least of all some woman who had been a slave, but he did pay the extra fee. On the walk back to his ship, his purchases heavy under his arm, he should have been thinking about the data he had retrieved. Instead, he spent his time sweating. Sweating, cursing the humidity clinging to his armor, and considering the woman and the cord tucked safely back into his belt.


	4. Salt on the Wound and in Other Uncomfortable Places

Ona woke to a heavy warmth and a throat so dry she swore she could taste blood. Panic filled her chest. _Had they found her? Punishment would – no._ She was in his ship. The Mandalorian’s ship. Her limbs were stiff from being in one position too long, and the skin on her back was tight and achy. Slowly, Ona pushed herself up to sit with her shoulder against the back wall of the cockpit. The blanket that had been thrown over her was too warm, but it at least kept her modest. She was alone. Through the transparisteel canopy, she could see they had landed somewhere tropical. The sky was heavy with clouds and all around the ship was tall, vibrantly green vegetation.

_ Not the Spirit World, _ she thought,  _ or there would be more water.  _ Tenderly, she touched her fingertips to her burns. They had been treated and bandaged, as had her neck.  _ Today is a good day to live, then. _

H er ruined shirt and chest bindings had been folded into a neat pallet. Ona wondered if she could knot the bindings together again. The blue  blanket ,  _ his cloak _ , she realized, was  a kind gesture but she felt certain he would want it back. Aside from that, she would not be able to fight or protect him as her debt required until she had done something to wrap her body. Her pants were dirty and singed a bit, but still serviceable. She pulled the waistband up gently over the bandages on her back and tightened the belt ties on the sides. The cloak she laid over her shoulders and then across her chest in an ‘x’ before twisting it behind her back and tying it together over her abdomen. The tails dangled a good half meter, but it was the best she could do for the moment. She hung her veil and headscarf from an exposed lever on the wall, wondering if she would have a means of washing them any time soon.

A single ration bar and a canteen had been left out. Ona hesitated before deciding that the Mandalorian would not have put them there if he didn’t mean for her to have them. He had taken the time to treat her injuries, it made sense that he would want her to regain her strength as well. _What’s the worst he could do, poison it?_ Ona snorted to herself. It seemed like a waste of water when he could have easily strangled her with one hand while she was unconscious.

When she finished and felt confident she wouldn’t pass out again, Ona stood and took stock of her surroundings. She could stand up straight in the cockpit - barely. She was not locked in, but there was a blinking light she recognized as a message system. The only recording that was set to play automatically was written rather than a holo, so she shut it off and opened the canopy instead.

A tidal wave of heat and humidity washed over her. Ona had never been anywhere so warmly damp. The planet smelled like vegetation rot, a spicy floral scent, and something cleaner and sharper that prickled her nose. She did not see any signs of sentient life, but there were depressions in the undergrowth near the ship that looked the size of the Mandalorian’s boots. It took her a few moments of scrutiny, but she found his perimeter defenses as well. Narrow stakes had been placed in the ground equidistant from each other in a rough circle approximately  twenty meters across - barely containing the ship at its widest point. From the design, she guessed that they were high-density vaporizers, rather than the more common laser defense grid. It would use a tremendous amount of power, but no trespassers would live long enough to scream and alert anyone of their location.  _ Overkill _ , she thought. Then she considered the size of the Mandalorian and the multitude of weapons she had seen on his person. Overkill seemed to be his standard mode of operation.

A quick search of the ship revealed little in the way of supplies - not that Ona was expecting much from such a small vessel.  Storage had been carved out of the space usually reserved for as astromech droid in a starfighter, making her wonder if he figured his coordinates for hyperspace himself.  On one side of the collapsible vac closet was a narrow compartment containing a bedroll, more ration bars, potable water, and a nearly empty med kit. On the other side, in a compartment more than twice as large, were weapons.  A lot of weapons.

Blasters. A disruptor pistol. Two decidedly sharp short swords. Several compressed fuel canisters. A truly impressive variety of grenades. Some weapons she could not identify. And the largest heavy rifle Ona had ever seen. _Overkill, thy name is Mandolorian,_ she thought wryly.

When she sealed the weapons locker again and he still had not returned, she decided to stretch her legs. Gingerly, she climbed out of the cockpit, over the wing, and down. The soil underfoot was thin and rocky. No doubt that accounted for the lack of trees in the clearing, but the plant life was aggressive. Ferns and low flowers covered the ground everywhere that wasn’t bare rock, and the stones were covered with moss. Cognizant of her injuries, and that she might spend a great deal of her future time in the Mandalorian’s small ship, Ona began a series of stretches before embarking on her practice katas.

The meditative routine gave her an opportunity to organize her thoughts. She had gone to live at the monastery at a young age. At ten she was isolated from the majority of the initiates who would go on to become the guards and Hutt enforcers on her planet to receive specialized training. By age twelve she had known that the only future ahead of her was one of forced servitude and violence for the sake of protecting the Hutt’s criminal empire. At fourteen she had been collared, veiled, and put to work guarding clients, stealing relics and information, and killing anyone who tried to harm the Hutt family that controlled her home planet. For more than a dozen years she had worn a metal band around her neck that discouraged disobedience with a strong shock. Ona had received enough shocks to make her pass out more than once and she still thought of almost nothing but escape. Escape. Freedom. Living a life where the sacred martial art of her people would not be used for the gain of the Hutts.

Whatever else the Mandalorian was, he had a code of honor. He could have left her to the New Republic patrols. He could have let her die instead of treating her wounds. He could have shackled or collared her while she was asleep and sold her to slavers. His actions proved to her that she had made the right choice in offering him a life debt. Three, really. One for her, one for Aus, and one for Illiam. Her brothers had saved her from punishment and worse more times than she could count, the least she could do was take this obligation on their behalf. 

She heard him before she saw him. He moved quietly for such a large, heavily armored person, but he could not prevent the stillness that fell around him. Animals and insects recognized the danger of a large predator and their fear and natural tendency to flee made his location obvious to her. She did not pause, nearly done with the last form in a kata series, but did turn her eyes to where she knew he would appear.

“You were told to remain in the ship.” The blue of his armor and dark gray of his clothing were a sharp contrast to the green foliage and bright flowers around him. She couldn’t be certain with the modulator, but he sounded irritated.

Carefully, because Ona had survived more than one Master and dozens of clients who believed she had disobeyed them, she replied, “I do not remember you saying so.”

“I left a message.”

Ona winced, remembering the blinking indicator light. “I cannot read. A holo would-”

“Basic?” He interrupted her, and she definitely heard the surprise in his voice. More slowly he continued, “I have a translator program.”

“It would not help.” She shrugged, pushing down the old, familiar feelings of resentment and anger. “I was never taught to read in any language. It is not permitted.”

“By the Monks of the Blood?” He was watching her, even as he set down his packages and began disarming the perimeter. Ona knew her face clearly showed her surprise.

“You have heard of us?”

His helmet shook side to side.

“Which is it?” She bit the inside of her cheek, surprised she had questioned him. Although Ona could not help being curious, she certainly knew better than to express it.

“A trader saw the...cord you gave me. He called it a Spirit Thread and said it was made by Monks of the Blood.” He picked up his packages again, setting them inside the perimeter and then turning his back on her to reset the defenses. He seemed to have no concern that she might attack him. _Ego?_ If it was it was earned. If not… 

Ona considered him with uncomfortable trepidation. She had never spoken to any outsiders about her people. It was not forbidden, but no one had ever asked. This Mandalorian had freed her and her brothers. She owed him her life, but the past was hers to give or withhold. If she was to protect him, he would have to trust her. Ona had learned from bitter experience that trust required an exchange.

“ The teachings of the monastery do not forbid literacy. But the Hutts control our spiritual leader. They control the whole planet, and they prefer my people to remain…” The euphemism she had heard in the past was  _ naive _ . Ona completed her final stretch, feeling the lingering soreness from the most recent whipping she had received as well as the cooling bandages on her back. She exhaled and spoke the truth for once. “They prefer us to be easy to control.”

A scoffing breath escaped the helmet. The Mandalorian picked up his packages again and carried them to the flattened ground under the ship. “I’ve seen you fight. If the Hutts or anyone else wanted to control your people, they’d need to do a lot more than take away your letters.”

“ Like take away our ships, fuel sources, medical centers, schools, and freedom of occupation?” It was the most honest conversation Ona had ever had. It was exhilarating. It was terrifying. She wondered if he would pull his beskar vibroblade and teach her a lesson in keeping a civil tongue. She could not seem to stop herself. No, she didn’t  _ want  _ to stop herself. “Or do you mean slap collars on those who can fight and shock them until they fall unconscious if they disobey?”

He was staring at her. She couldn’t see his eyes under the dark visor, but she could feel them.

“You broke that control.”

“No.” She shook her head. “You and your knife did that.”

“You did,” he insisted. “When you bared your neck. I could have easily killed you and you risked it anyhow. You will not serve them.” She did not disagree. They stood, staring at each other as the humidity around them began to cool and thicken. “Do you want to break another collar?”


	5. Should've Done You Just the Same

Why had he offered? Paz should have loaded up the ship, left the woman on Ieon VI - perhaps with the clothes and a few credits and an introduction to Nefesh, and continued on his mission. Instead he had offered to help her take charge of her freedom. He was an idiot. A bigger idiot even than Din with his green foundling and his Darksaber and his shiny armor and his mouthy, tiny data-pusher.

He was being too hard on himself. No one was as big of an idiot as Din Djarin.

Paz sat under the shelter of the Miy-iil and listened to the soft patter of rain and the quiet murmur of the woman in the cockpit.

_ Ona _ . Ona Liphar. Monk of the Blood. His life debtor.

She had shared her name after he offered to teach her to read. After he had given her one of the fresh fruits from his trip into town she had explained that her fighting technique was part of her culture, taught at only one monastery since the Hutts had seized control of the planet. He had traced the Aurebesh alphabet into the dirt and it had earned him more information about a life debt. He had hoped it would be something like the Talz and he would be able to symbolically accept repayment with an exchange of blood. Unfortunately, it seemed to fall a little closer on the spectrum to the Wookiees. He hadn’t saved her life, but in her view he was responsible for her freedom and that of her two friends. Paz was hoping he wouldn’t have to resign himself to a skinny little warrior following him around for the rest of his days.

It would draw a lot of stares at the covert.

The Armorer would have a strong opinion.

Din would laugh himself straight out of his beskar.

When the mist had started to turn to rain and his stomach had protested going too long without a meal, Paz had sent the woman - _Ona_ \- up into the ship. _Keep the canopy closed,_ he had ordered _. Do not come out unless I tell you to._ She had not asked the questions he had expected. Instead, _can I leave it just a crack? For the fresh air and so I can hear if you need me_? Paz had no idea what the woman - _Ona_ , he reminded himself again - thought he might need her for, but he had agreed.

He finished off his canteen of water and stretched out his arm to set it where it could collect rain and be refilled. He did actually have an idea what she thought he might need. Help. Defending himself. Paz snorted and leaned back against a landing strut to enjoy the cool breeze on his face. Ona was an amazing fighter. If the situation had been different, if he hadn’t been on a mission and in danger of being shot, he could have watched her fight all day. Her complete control over her body, the fluid way she moved and the power she held by using her opponent’s strength and size against them, it was fascinating and admirable.  _ Not admirable, valuable. Exquisite _ .

Paz shook his head, annoyed by his own imagination still replaying the way she had broken that addict’s neck back at the cantina. It had been pretty  _ dank  _ _ farrik _ good. Good enough that he would be happy to fight at her side.  _ If  _ he actually needed help. And  _ if  _ she would wear some kriffing armor. And  _ if  _ she gained at least ten kilos so he didn’t have to worry about her snapping like a branch in a strong breeze.

“What is the ninth one again?”

Paz startled at her voice, muffled slightly by the mostly closed canopy and the rain. His scalp prickled and his heart thudded as if she were looking right at his face. She wasn’t. They were as good as in different rooms in the same house. He was in no more danger of breaking his Creed than he was when using the fresher on Din’s ship with Suvi out in the cargo area. He could easily slip his helmet back on before she could get out of the cockpit and under the ship to see him. What was more, he firmly believed that she would not try to look. Even without knowing why or even that she shouldn’t. He had told her to stay in the cockpit and she would.

It turned his stomach a bit, to think that she followed his orders so easily. He hoped it was respect and not blind obedience. The Mandalorian hatred of slavery was second only to their hatred of child slavery. If her oath to him was another form of subjugation he was going to have to make breaking her debt a priority.

“Ninth what?”

She was quiet for a long moment, long enough that he began to think she hadn’t heard him. Then, “Did you...urmh. The ninth letter.”

“Oh.” He wondered if she had found a datapad or something to write with in the cockpit. He hadn’t expected her to take the short lesson so seriously. “ _Forn_. It is the shape of your left hand if you tried to grab practice armor off of the shelf, with a vertical line through the fingers and thumb. _Forn_ like flamethrower and femoral artery.”

“That is...extremely specific. And very...Mandalorian of you. Thank you.”

She lapsed into silence again and Paz thought for a moment about napping until the rain cleared up. He would not take the risk, of course, but the idea was appealing. He turned his mind to the data stick. It had given him more information regarding the loom, but also made his mission more complicated. Apparently there  _ was  _ an actual loom, but there was also an instruction manual of sorts. Either thing was useless without the other. Paz did not need to return to the covert to know the Armorer would want both. It seemed he would be away from home longer than planned.

“What is the one that looks like a water witching stick?”

Paz blinked, trying to figure out what letter she could possibly mean.  _ What the haran is water witching? _

“Like three roads, all meeting in the center to battle but one of them is winning because it is longer?”

That actually made sense. “ _Vev_. As in, vibroblade and victory.”

_Too long a_ _way from home._ _W_ _ith my_ _new_ _shadow._ He sighed. _Shiib verd’ika._

_ *Haran – hell _

_ dank farrik - goddamn _

_ Shiib verd’ika - skinny little warrior _


	6. Wheel. Of. FISH!

_He might not be_ _only_ _honorable,_ Ona thought _. He might be...nice._

Ona smoothed her fingers over her new chest binding once more. It was the softest cloth she had ever touched. Pale blue, a shade she had never seen outside of pictures, she imagined it made her skin look more golden than brown. It was downy and smooth at the same time and it actually felt nice against her breasts - even over the bandages on her still-healing back it was only a comforting pressure rather than an irritating rasp. Her new shirt was just as lovely, although a darker shade of blue. It hung loose like a traditional monastery garment but did not have the ties at the edges to properly cross it over her body and make it stay or the bands to pull the wrists tight. Her hand and forearm wraps worked to keep the wide sleeves out of her way, but it was a shame to cover the beautiful color with faded black. Ona left the stiff, bloody veil and headscarf on the metal strongbox that had become her seat and tried not to think about how long it had been since she had gone anywhere outside of the monastery walls without her identity protected.

It was exciting and defiant to display her face. And also impractical and foolish when she was nearly certain the Mandalorian would be getting them into another fight soon. No one who carried that much firepower around with them didn’t find a fight.

She tucked one shirt tail into the opposite side of her pants and hoped that would keep her chest covered until she could reconfigure her veil to make a belt. She could not imagine what had possessed the Mandalorian to spend so many credits on her when any old garment would have done just as well.

“Is it the wrong size?” His impatience floated up from where he stood outside the ship, and Ona was abruptly reminded that he was waiting for her. He had a job, a mission, and she was meant to be helping and protecting him, not admiring her clothes.

“It is more than fine, thank you,” she said, putting one hand to the lip of the cockpit and jumping out lightly to her feet as he pressed the controls on his vambrace to seal the ship. When she straightened next to him she smiled up at his helmet, hoping to convey how grateful she was for his generosity. The longer she was with him, the more convinced she became that the Mandalorian was genuinely a good, caring person. He seemed to view her as - perhaps not an equal because he was tremendously, mostly justifiably sure of his own prowess - but certainly not as an object or simply a tool to be bought, sold, and lent out. In light of what she had come to know of his character, and the way he snored like a wounded taun taun when he slept in the pilot’s chair, Ona found that she liked him as well as respected him.

“You’re…” He gestured to his neck and looked pointedly over her head.

Confused, Ona glanced down. Her jump had pulled the end of her shirt loose and it hung down halfway to her knees on both sides. An inch wide strip of pale bindings and the skin over her sternum were exposed. It made her uncomfortable, but it was nothing compared to having her hair and face on view to a crowd of strangers. She certainly would not be scandalizing anyone with her tiny peak of skin, but she still self-consciously wrapped an arm around herself. It felt odd to be without her veil and conservative tunic, but he had already spent so much on her that she couldn’t ask him for more. She did not want to seem ungrateful.

“I’ll figure out a belt when-”

“ _Di’kutla_ -” He cut himself off and flipped up his cloak between them. With both hands he ripped a four inch wide strip off of the bottom of the muted blue garment.

“You don’t-”

“Hold still,” he muttered.

The order was unnecessary. Ona was frozen in shock as he yanked her shirt closed, crossing the open ends high and tight against her throat. With a quick motion he looped the bit of cloak twice around her waist, knotting it on one side to hold everything together. It was far more fitted than what she had ever been provided by the monastery, but it would certainly preserve her modesty and allow her freedom to move in a fight. She could not believe he had ripped his own clothes for her. Or dressed her so quickly without hurting her. Or that he cared about her concerns regarding her clothes at all.

“Tha-” she cleared her throat and swallowed hard. 

“Is it too tight?” His voice was low, quiet - somehow intimate despite his being further from her than they ever were in the ship and in a far more public place.

“Fine. Thank you.”

“Take this as well. You don’t...you don’t have to wear it.” A small bundle of fabric was shoved at her. If Ona hadn’t honed her reflexes for three quarters of her life she would have dropped it. He spun around, almost giving her his back, and scanned the hangar while she examined the material. At first she thought it black, but when she unfolded it the light shifted across the surface and revealed it was a blue as dark as the night sky. She blinked stupidly at the litham. It was a different style than the veil and headscarf she was used to, but it would cover her hair, lower face, and neck.

_ You are choosing to put it on. You can choose to take it off.  _

Ona pulled it on, unwillingly comforted by the security. Her identity was hidden. Her hair could not be grabbed or fall into her face during combat. The injury on her throat was concealed, so none would be able to purposefully take advantage of it. She tugged the smooth cloth over her mouth and nose, finding it breathable, and then lowered it again. “Thank-”

“Let’s go.”

He took off with a long stride. Ona couldn’t do much but follow. Although her training prevented her from losing all sense of her surroundings, it was several minutes before she could take in much beyond counting weapons and potential ambush locations. Eyes were on them constantly, even though most tried to look like they weren’t looking. It was an unusual sensation. Ona was used to causing a bit of a commotion when she was off planet, but any group of five or more people all dressed alike with their faces covered would probably make people stare. And the few individuals who had heard of or seen a team of Blood Monks at work tended to give them a wide berth.

It was nothing compared to the reception the Mandalorian received. Ona imagined that a man his size would draw stares and cut a path through a crowd even without his armor and weapons. That matte blue helmet, a full head above any other humans on the station, didn’t cut a path, he  _ mowed  _ a  _ swath _ . People ducked into shops, even walked through the clouds of steam erupt ing from ventilation grates to avoid being in his way.

Ona had been trained to slip through the darkness and attack potential issues from a position of superiority and secrecy before they became a problem. As far as she could tell, the Mandalorian had been trained to dare anyone to create a problem and then shoot them. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to stick close so she could use his shadow to launch her own surprise defense of him or so she could watch the fight he would inevitably cause. Putting him on a busy, fairly seedy space station was like dropping a bantha into a pit of snakes. Sure, the snakes might get in a few lucky strikes, but they were all going to be flattened before it would do them any good.

She also hoped that whomever he was there to talk to was in a sharing mood, because Ona and the Mandalorian had definitely lost any advantage in surprise. A reluctant informant would have plenty of warning to flee not just the station, but probably the entire system. 

Subtle, the Mandalorian was not.

He stopped so abruptly she had to quickstep to the side to avoid being plastered nose first against his jetpack.

“I’ll do the talking. You…” His voice dropped to a near whisper. “Try not to draw attention and if I say run, head back to the ship.”

He stepped forward again and a nondescript door opened before Ona could ask how many opponents he was anticipating or what sort of terrain they would face. She followed him, scowling before remembering her features were exposed. Ona pulled up her litham and looked around the shop.

It had the appearance of a warehouse and she wondered if it was used for distribution to other parts of the galaxy. Rows upon rows of shelves and bins stretched back into dim lighting and then darkness. A squat counter hunkered in the center of the large room, directly in front of the door. Behind it, a circular staircase rose up to meet an opening in the ceiling and down into another in the floor. The Mandalorian stopped halfway between the entrance and the Quarren behind the counter. Ona waited until the shopkeeper’s eyes were firmly on the beskar and the man wearing it before slipping to one side and into the shadows. Her new blue clothing was not as dark as her old black tunic, but in the gloomy light of the warehouse it seemed to work just as well.

“What can I do for you, Mandalorian?”

“I’m looking for an item. An artifact of Mandalore.”

_ Okay, not subtle, prone to overkill, and incapable of misdirection _ . Ona wondered how the Mandalorian had survived as long as he had.  _ Big kriffing guns, obviously. _

“I have no beskar here. Perhaps you should try the Tion Cluster, many things of value, from many dead empires, have passed through there.”

The Mandalorian stiffened at the word ‘dead’, but Ona was more interested in the twitch and flick of the Quarren’s tentacles. This was an individual that understood misdirection. Silently, she slid further back along the aisle of shelves and began to climb.

“I am looking for something else.” The conversation continued. The Mandalorian grew colder and more irritated as the Quarren became more agitated and insulting. Ona ignored the exact language to focus instead on the room. A door slid open at the far side, at least one figure crouched there, perhaps two. She flexed her fingers and prepared for a fight.

“...downstairs, in my private collection.”

“ _Verd’ika_.”

The Mandalorian had called her that once before, but he did not look her way and only paused for a moment before following the Quarren down the stairs. Ona was itching to follow him, but he had told her to not to draw attention to herself, and jumping down from the shelf would definitely draw attention. Besides that, she would do more good watching his back and keeping an eye on the hidden figures lurking on the other side of the room. She did not have long to wait.

As soon as the Mandalorian was no longer visible, two more Quarren crept out into the open space, circling the stairs but not getting close enough to see what was below.  _ Or be seen _ , she noted. One spoke quietly into a communicator notifying whomever was on the other end that they should set the perimeter grid. Ona did not like the sound of that.

“Do you think he knows?” The more orange of the two whispered.

“Does it matter? We’ll get his armor and our cut will be enough to get off this arid station.”

“If we take him alive, we could sell him to a fighting pit. Or maybe the Hutts.”

She clenched her jaw at the mention of the criminals that had controlled her people all of her life. No one was being sold to those slugs today. Even if Ona weren’t there to make sure their plan didn’t work, she doubted the Mandalorian would ever be captured.

The yellower one made a squelching sound that might have been a laugh. “Fighting a Mando should make you concerned about keeping your own life, not selling his.” He drew his blaster and took aim at the staircase.

Ona hopped to her feet, crouching so she could run in the shallow space between the top of the shelf and the ceiling. A meter before she would have run out of surface, she dropped onto her hip, ignoring the twinge of pain in her back, and slid through the dust and into open air feet first. The soles of her slippers collided with the back of Yellow’s head before either Quarren knew she was there.

“Hey!” Orange shouted as his companion hit the floor. 

Ona followed him down, shifting her weight so her heel pressed forcefully into an eyeball and the spongy cartilage surrounding it. Tentacles lashed at her ankle and calf, a high-pitched shriek emanating from Yellow as he fired off his blaster and struggled on the floor. Ona dipped, pressing her palms flat against the metal paneling next to her feet and kicking out sharply against his shoulder joint and the delicate liver organs that Quarren housed high in their chest. The movement propelled her legs up over her head in a flip that startled Orange into stumbling backward and firing toward the ceiling. Other blaster bolts were pinging around the staircase and shouts could be heard from below, but Ona focused on her immediate attacker. She completed her handspring with bent knees, keeping her center of gravity low. Orange swung his blaster around to face her, but the motion was almost sluggish in comparison to her reaction. She jabbed her left fingers into the long muscle at his hip, causing him to bow forward in pain. Heat and light streaked past her face as he reflexively fired his blaster. With her right fist she punched his solar plexus, directly above the nerve cluster that controlled his lower body. Orange went down hard. His legs spasmed, kicking her several times, but she maintained her balance and danced out of the way. One solid kick to his temple caused brain hemorrhaging; he needed immediate massive medical assistance.

If he wasn’t already dead.

She turned to the staircase as a blue helmet appeared, followed by smoke and heat.

“You should have followed me,” he growled as he vaulted over the railing and latched one gloved hand onto her wrist. He did not have his gun drawn, but she noticed he had a few empty clips on his belt where grenades had been. He turned to the front entrance, either not noticing or ignoring the crunch and squelch of Quarren flesh under his boot.

“ Not that way!” She tugged ineffectually at his grip, trying not to let her anxiety over being manhandled get the better of her.  _ He is not your enemy. He is not your Master. He is trying to escape  _ with  _ you. _ “ They set a perimeter. The street door is a trap.”

He pivoted again without missing a beat. Bits of orange vitrea splattered against Ona’s legs. A rough yank and a spin forced her into his chest. The beskar smacked coldly against her cheek and Ona found herself instinctually balling her fist and aiming for the narrow band of unarmored neck between his helmet and the ceramic gorget over his collarbones.

“Hold still,” he ordered. “Protect your eyes.” The strangeness of his command short circuited her intent to disable him and gave him time to secure her against him with one arm while he ignited his jet pack. His cloak was flipped over his shoulder, covering her head and face.

_ We’re inside _ , was the only thought she had time for before her feet left the ground. The crunch of metal was loud around her, the press of beskar and Mandalorian against her front smooth and hard. She had to bite her lip to keep from screaming when something scraped against her back. He grunted, more vibration than sound, but he did not drop her. It was over all too fast and not nearly quick enough.  Ona glanced back at the hole they had made in the station and then to the duraplast dust cascading off of the Mandalorian’s helmet.

“Would looking for a door have been too pedestrian for you?”

“Don’t touch the phoenix,” he said, and spun her around again by her wrist. The movement did not make her dizzy, but the unexpected change in position took her a moment to compensate for and find her balance. He pulled her several running steps before she could take stock of their surroundings.

They were in a narrow, alley-like corridor that stretched several stories above them. Sporadic bridges, power cables, telecommunications wires, and enclosed archways spanned the space, creating a maze of aerial cover and perches for enemies. The Mandalorian was shooting as he ran, taking out opponents who seemed to melt out of the walls and appear in doorways already armed and eager to kill them.  _ Did the Quarren call the whole station down on us?  _ Ahead, five meters above them, the barrel of a laser rifle glinted out of an open air walkway. To shoot the sniper, the Mandalorian would have to take his focus off of the enemies in front and to the sides.

“Let go!” She yelled, and was surprised when he did release her wrist. Ona did not waste time thinking about it, but grabbed the edge of his back armor under his arm and hauled herself up, digging her toes first against his heavy calf muscle as he ran, then against his belt. She hissed when her knee brushed against the blisteringly hot casing of his jet back, but continued moving.

“What-” He started, but the ping of rifle fire off of his helmet drowned out his voice.

Ona braced her left foot on his shoulder and her right against the top of his helmet and jumped. Her hands caught a low-hanging cable and she swung on it, legs tucked in tight until she reached the apex of the arch and then stretched out, flipping and tucking in mid air to land on a narrow, shed balcony roof that jutted into the alley. She sprinted along the surface and jumped again, propelling herself out to the walkway where the sniper was stationed. Her fingers gripped the narrow balusters and she pulled her legs up, slipping her toes under the central brace on the underside of the bridge.

“What the-”

Ona let go with her hands, falling backward and arching up again to grasp the opposite side of the walkway. She kicked her feet free as soon as her fingertips found purchase and swung her body again - this time releasing her hold the moment her toes pointed toward the ceiling. As soon as she was higher than the walkway guard rail, she tucked again and flipped, redirecting her momentum.

Directly into the back of the sniper.

He had been leaning over the side, still trying to see the blue figure that had gone under the bridge. The barrel of his rifle caught between the bars of the railing, slamming against his shoulder. He screamed and his weight unbalanced him out over the alleyway. Ona landed on her feet behind him and brought the hard point of her elbow against the vulnerable floating rib over his kidney. He twitched violently to get away and tipped, flailing, before falling ten meters to the station floor.

* _Di’kutla - stupid, worthless_

_Verd’ika – little warrior_


	7. Fear, Surprise, and Ruthless Efficiency

“I have no beskar here. Perhaps you should try the Tion Cluster. Many things of value, from many dead empires, have passed through there.”

Paz sincerely considered showing the disrespectful Quarren just how not dead the Mandalorians were. With his boot shoved down a slimy beak. He clenched his jaw instead and tried to hold on to his patience. Ona had slipped away, blending into the shadows. At least that was one less thing Paz had to worry about. He was certain she could hold her own in a fight, but he wouldn’t call himself a skilled negotiator by a long shot and the last thing he needed was another person distracting the Quarren and muddling up the conversation.

“I am looking for something else. An artifact from Mandalore, pre-Empire. Have you seen or heard of anything like that?”

“Nothing pre-Empire survived the glassing except beskar and an unlucky few of your kind. I suppose it takes reality longer to get through helmets that thick, eh?” His tone was scathing, but his tentacles were twitching. Paz didn’t personally know a lot of Quarren, but he knew a bad liar when he saw one.

“I did not ask about beskar.” Paz tipped his head, wondering why the Quarren kept bringing it up. And why he was being so unnecessarily combative. As a Mandalorian, Paz was used to people not wanting to work with or for him. He was not used to them refusing outright to his face. He flipped over to his heat sensors. There were two more figures at the far side of the shop, behind a door. Below his feet, another individual was stationed next to a cold, impenetrable room. Paz couldn’t locate Ona without turning his head, but that also meant she was out of anyone else’s sight. He still needed the loom, or at least another lead on it, and now he also really wanted to know what was protected from thermal imaging on the sub-level.

“It doesn’t matter what you are asking after. Has all that muscle squeezed out room for a brain? I’ll say it again. I have nothing for you here, Mando.

“That is a matter of perspective.” Paz rested his hand on the butt of his blaster. “I thought I might head to Klatooine next. There is still quite a lucrative market there for certain...seafood. Isn’t there?” Honestly, Paz wasn’t entirely certain that the Hutt processing facility for Quarren and Mon Calamari organ meat was still operational on that planet, but the threat resulted in the intended effect.

Tentacles twitched. Violently. “Perhaps-” the squid burbled wetly, “I might have something that would pique your interest. Downstairs, in my private collection.”

Paz hesitated for a moment. He did not particularly want to leave Ona alone in a room he knew was being watched, and having a fighter of her skill at his back would be a tactical advantage. Not to mention, he would enjoy seeing her style again. However, if she had gone unnoticed up to this point, he did not want to call attention to her position. He decided to leave the choice up to her. “ _Verd’ika_ ,” he called out, hoping she would remember the nickname and feeling safe that the Quarren would not know any Mando’a. He waited only a few seconds, and when she did not immediately reveal herself he followed the Quarren.

The twisting staircase was narrow. Paz had to lean toward the outer railing and angle his body slightly to keep from dragging his pauldron along the central support column. The Quarren had moved much quicker than he expected, and was already halfway to the thermally sealed room when Paz reached the bottom. He switched his visor back to normal vision, taking in the blue lighting that would be easier on eyes that had evolved underwater. Long tables covered in merchandise in various states of repair, cleaning, and disassembly stretched down the length of the room to a heavy blast door. Although Paz could not see the second individual, he pinpointed the concealed guard station and blaster slit where the heat signature had last been. Two other exits from the room were obvious. Paz did not doubt there were more concealed doors or hiding spots.

“Well, Mandalorian? Come look if you are so insistent. Don’t think you will get away without giving me a fair price for whatever goods you choose. I have the best, and I expect the best pay!” The shopkeep began punching in a security code in the panel next to the door. He was typing unusually slowly, his tentacles swaying. Paz stayed out of easy targeting from the guard.

“ What sort of weapons do you have?” Paz asked more to try to keep up the ruse that he was fooled than because he cared.  _ Although  _ _ it never hurts to look. _

The blast doors slid open and the small room beyond fully snared Paz’s attention for a few moments. He cataloged at least six weapons that he would have gladly picked up for his personal collection before his eyes caught on a case near the back. He could not make out the details, but something inside glinted with the unmistakable dull sheen of bare beskar. Paz smiled under his helmet, reasoning that it would be just as easy, and far less irritating, to look for the loom among the Quarren’s stores if the squid was dead first. He certainly deserved to die if he was holding on to beskar and had lied about it.

“Have you ever seen a Ssi-ruuvi paddle beamer? Come closer.”

_ Of course. Right past your friend with the blaster. _

Paz obliged, but as he pulled even with the concealed blaster slit, he snapped out his left fist and punched through cheap plascrete and flimsy struts. The thug behind the wall shouted in surprise, firing. The bolt bounced off Paz’s armor and he closed his fist around a soft throat. The Quarren was inside the safe room, lunging for the door controls and yelling into a communicator in his native language. With his right hand Paz swept parts and junk off the nearest table and threw them into the doorway. Most clattered and caught on the slots where the door slipped into the wall - grinding against the hydraulics and preventing it from closing. A few pieces had enough weight in them to fly into the room and one lucky shot smacked against the Quarren’s head. The creature shrieked and ducked to avoid further projectiles. It gave Paz time to yank the guard him forward - straight through the remains of the false wall.

Two long strides took Paz into the safe room. He dropped the groaning, bleeding guard on the way. Boots were echoing throughout the sub-level, growing closer as more thugs approached from other locations. Paz had to wonder how big, exactly, the Quarren’s black market operation was that he had so many employees. Unfortunately, he didn’t have time to force answers to all of his questions.

“What do you know about a Mandalorian loom?” He demanded as he picked up the Quarren by his tentacles. The shopkeep screamed, clawing at the gloved hand holding him off of the floor. Paz imagined it was extremely painful. He had heard Quarren tentacles were quite sensitive. A blaster bolt burned past him, destroying what looked like a very expensive Alderaanian vase. Paz slung the Quarren to the back of the room and turned, hitting the first unlucky thug to arrive squarely in the chest, leaving the man gasping, eyes rolling as he fell dead. The guard from the booth was struggling to rise. A Mandalorian knee to a glass jaw took that attacker completely out of the fight. Paz armed a grenade and tossed it down the hallway the thug had come from before advancing again on the Quarren.

“Answer me, and I will leave.”

The Quarren hissed with a flick of bruised chin appendages. He unwisely struggled to stand. Paz kicked him back to the floor, using his boot to pin him to the base of the clear display box that had caught his eye. Without looking behind him, he fired a few more shots through the still open blast doors to keep more guards from approaching.

“Tell me what you know.”

“Nothing! I swear it! I’ve never heard of such a thing!”

“Then why did you try to insult me into leaving?”

“There is a market for beskar. I found some mixed in with a lot of goods I purchased off a thief.” He pointed up above his head at the case. Another round of blaster fire pinged off of Paz’s armor, the walls, and the hardier artifacts on the tables. The Quarren yelled for his men to be careful as several items broke. Paz pressed a button on his vambrace, setting off the small frag grenade he had thrown earlier. Shouts and groans replaced the sound of blaster fire for a few moments. In the back of his mind, Paz was grateful that Ona had stayed hidden upstairs where her unarmored skin was safe from so much reckless, wasteful shooting. _Shebs’paion who don’t deserve weapons they don’t know how to use._

“And why lure me down here?” He pressed a bit harder with his boot.

The Quarren choked out, “You wouldn’t leave, so I thought if we killed you I could sell your armor too.”

Paz didn’t bother telling the thieving shopkeep that his beskar would be taken over his dead body. He simply shot the Quarren in the head. The squid’s personal belongings were emptied into Paz’s pockets. Then the irritated Mandalorian punched the clear casing. The plastex shattered under repeated application of baskar-reinforced knuckles. Paz bundled the few small items inside the cloth they had been laid out on and shoved it all into an empty pouch on his belt. He fastened it as he turned, pulling another detonator from his supply and setting it. The guards were starting to regroup as Paz ran past, flinging the explosive and making for the stairs.

Concussive force and flames followed him up the tight space, and Paz cursed whomever had built such a narrow passage. As soon as his head cleared the floor, he added more curses for the space station’s designers. Ona had taken down two attackers, there were more below, and as he reviewed the schematics he found that further into the shop was a maze of corridors and rooms that would create choke points and slow his escape considerably.

“You should have followed me.” Hindsight was useless in combat, but at least if they had both been on the sublevel they could have taken one of the tunnels that led under the street and made their way up from there. By now the tunnels would be full of a dangerous combination of armed criminals and fire. Paz preferred not to be near open flame in an artificial environment.

He’d have to go out through the front and hope that most of the backup had been summoned to the sublevel. In a rush, he’d catch them off guard and they’d be less likely to hit him anywhere vulnerable with their weapons. Ona would be able to keep up, he was certain, and if she stayed close, his bulk would deflect most of the hits away from her.

She waved him off from the front entrance. “They set a perimeter. The street door is a trap.”

_Dank ferrik_. The shopkeep had been more prepared and better armed than Paz had given him credit for. The Mandalorian did not like the realization that he had underestimated an opponent. He liked even less that there must have been something incredibly valuable, and likely illegal, worth protecting in the basement and now he would not get the chance to find out what.

There was only one other choice for a retreat. Paz pulled up the schematics again on his HUD and tucked Ona in close to his chest. She stiffened, but they didn’t have time to debate tactics and of the two of them, his head was the least likely to be damaged in an escape. His blue-painted helmet may not have been as showy to outsiders as the shiny beacon on Din’s head, but it was just as hard.

He tossed his cloak over Ona’s face to give her an extra barrier against shrapnel and debris and prepared to make his own exit.

Paz had trained for years in the Rising Phoenix, and this was not the first time he had used it to make a tactical retreat. It _was_ the first time he had done so through two floors inside a space station. He aimed himself for the staircase, hedging that the steps and vertical supports would give way easier than the ceiling and floor plating. Screams sounded from below as the structure groaned under his assault and then fell down to the sublevel. Ona made no objection even as Paz’s helmet connected with the second level ceiling, punched through with an extra burst of jet fuel, ripped past thin ventilation ducts, and exploded out into open public space again. He cut the power to his jet pack and dropped heavily to his feet. Something structural had glanced hard off of the side of his helmet, and he fought a disorienting dizziness as he drew his blaster. His HUD was projecting concerns about his health stats. He shut off the distraction then warned Ona about the searing heat of his equipment and began to run.

The schematic had detailed a relatively wide walkway that was a straight shot to the outer ring of the station. From there Paz had charted a course that would take them back to the hangar where hopefully the Miy-iil was fueled and not clamped in a dock-lock surrounded by security droids.

The schematics needed updated. Badly.

The corridor might have once been wide and open to the upper hull, but over long years of operation spaces had been altered, added on to, reconfigured, and systems rerouted. Shops jutted out with display windows and fenced seating areas. Living quarters had stolen additional square meters with overhangs, balconies, and bays. The airspace was tangled with cables, signage, and even laundry. Paz’s vision was blurred, but he was fairly certain a Femorian was shooting at him from behind the flimsy cover of a pair of women’s underclothes. The first shot pinged off of beskar. The second shot went into the air as the Femorian fell over dead with a smoking hole in his chest courtsey of Paz. Three more figures appeared out of doorways and windows, all aiming at the big, obvious blue target running down the corridor. At least one sniper was lining up a shot ahead. Paz hoped he could close the distance quickly. And that the person aiming the long barrel was not as good of a shot as a Mandalorian. Steam erupted from vent shafts and obstructed vision in the area even more than the blow to Paz’s head.

_ Kriffing kill zone. _

He took out two more attackers, still sprinting. Another six took their places. There was no way Paz could take flight again with so many obstructions he could get tangled in, and Ona would lose any advantage her fighting style offered her if he took her airborne. Or so he had assumed.

“Let go!”

He hadn’t realized he was still pulling her along. Immediately, he relaxed his fingers, hoping she would get behind him for extra protection, or at the very least pull one of his extra pistols from his belt and provide additional cover fire. She surprised him so thoroughly with her own tactic that Paz was slow to figure out her intent. Her weight on his calf wasn’t enough to make him stumble, but it did shorten his gait. By the next stride he was sprinting again and she had scrambled up his back as if she had a prehensile tail.

A blaster bolt to his helmet forestalled any questions and had his ears ringing, in addition to the wavering of his vision. She jumped off of him, but Paz had no time to look where she had gone. Two Zabraks armed with heavy stun batons were charging. Paz shifted his weight at the last moment, accepting the shock from the assailant on his left and using his superior mass and momentum to bowl the man over. Paz broke an arm under his boot and flipped his blaster around in his hand. The electricity was still humming in his muscles, making them twitch and cramp; he almost dropped the weapon. At the last second Paz got a grip on the burning hot laser barrel and swung wide, clipping the other Zabrak in the neck.

He had been aiming for the man’s nose.

Paz blinked furiously and kept running, relying on his beskar and the flexible ceramic plates in his more vulnerable areas to protect him from anyone firing at his back. He righted his pistol and fired off three more shots. One of them actually hit and took down a thug. _Your aim is worse than an Imp,_ he cursed himself. The blur in his vision. The pounding in his ears. Missing targets. Paz had a concussion. A concussion and another thousand meters of corridor and a sniper that was surely ready to shoot. He glanced up.

A figure in dark blue sailed gracefully through the air, catching hand- and foot-holds on the narrowest of seams. His breath got stuck in his throat as she flipped up, somersaulting and turning and throwing a man to his death. She was exquisite. She was out of position.

“ _Verd’ika_!” He shouted, trying to ignore the way his blood pressure elevated with the noise and pressed against the back of his eyeballs.

Paz was moving too fast to stop for the body that fell. He jumped over it, feeling his brain slosh in his skull. He switched to thermals to compensate for his wavering sight. A slim, quick moving figure appeared in his peripherals, running along a whisper-thin ledge parallel to him. A wide, heavy person with the outline of what appeared to be a hover-mounted heavy stun repeater moved into the center of the alley, two hundred meters ahead. He wished he had his big gun. He wished he had another Mandalorian at his side. He really wished he didn’t have to do what he was about to do.

“ _Verd’i_ -”

She swung down on a line of laundry, landing hard enough against his shoulder to make him skip a step to the side, but not to knock him over. He re-balanced, adjusting to her weight and laying down more fire. His blaster bolts punched holes through the steam ducts, releasing hot air in a tidal wave over the alley.

_ One hundred fifty meters. _

“Over or through?” Her voice was muffled by her head covering and the noise around them, but still understandable pressed as she was against his back and shoulder - mouth nearly kissing his helmet. He hoped his jetpack wasn’t burning her.

“Through.” He judged the distance again.

She adjusted her hold on him, putting one knee against his shoulder blade and digging her fingers under his ceramic gorget. Her skin was cooler than his, sending a shiver down his spine that addled his already concussed head.

“Give me a hand.”

_ Ninety meters. _

Paz held out his left hand, palm up, waiting for her to drop off of him and begin running. Instead she swung around to face him, not blocking his vision, but looking over his shoulder, and put her left foot in his palm. Her fingers slid around under his armor, brushing across the lump of cartilage in his throat. She drew her right knee up close to her shoulder, bracing the sole of her slipper against his bicep. If not for the way she distributed her weight to his armor, he would have dropped her, or tripped, or both. It took an embarrassingly long moment for his throbbing head to understand her intent.

“I’ll meet you on the other side.”

_ Thirty meters. _

Paz thrust his palm straight up as hard as he could and laid down cover fire. Ona soared. She was a dark blue bird against the drab gray of the station, arching up through the clouds of steam to disappear overhead. Then Paz was running full force. He put his shoulder down and one hundred and sixty-five kilos of beskar and solid muscle connected low with the heavy stunner. The hover gun flipped, repulsors whirring manically as it tried to reorient to gravity. The woman who had been positioning it slid off to the ground with a cry which cut off abruptly when the hover turned over completely and the station’s artificial gravity won, crushing her between the stunner and the flooring. As he cleared the steam cloud, Paz took in the two thugs slumped on the ground under Ona’s feet.

“What took you so long?” Her voice sounded vaguely like laughter under her face covering. Her eyes might have been crinkled in amusement, but Paz’s head was pounding too hard to focus on much past finding them a new route to the hangar and admiring the twisted and dislocated limbs of her opponents. She ran alongside him and did not hesitate to take his hand when he held it out. They cleared the mouth of the alley and Paz nearly threw her into the nearest waiting transport, ignoring the attendant’s demands that they stop. It was a breakneck race around the perimeter of the station, his vision blurring worse with each minute. Ona did not speak again until he had stopped the transport forcefully into the hangar wall, tossed the Quarren shopkeeper’s bag of credits at one of the mechanics and hustled them both into the Miy-iil.

“Are you okay to fly?”

Paz didn’t answer. He needed every ounce of focus to get his fingers to hit the correct switches and buttons. A warning was coming in over the hangar intercom. The bay doors were closing. Mechanics and droids were fleeing for safety. Sirens went off and the kriffing lights strobed orange. Paz thought his brain might begin leaking out of his nose.

Ona was gripping the back of his chair, leaning over his shoulder in the cramped cockpit as he maneuvered the ship into position and accelerated dangerously quickly. They didn’t scrape the doors on their way out, but it was a closer call than he would have preferred.

“Ona,” he snapped out. He thought he snapped out but his ears didn’t hear it. Or his tongue was too thick and didn’t say it. His mouth tasted metallic. His vision was going black at the edges as he punched coordinates into the nav computer.

“You are bleeding.” Slender fingers, dipped darkly red at the tips, came into his line of vision.

_ Well. Maybe I do have worse luck than Din Djarin. _

“The helmet stays on.” He launched the ship into hyperspace and promptly blacked out.

* _ Dank ferrik –  _ _ goddammit _

_ Verd’ika – little warrior _


	8. Making Plutonium from Common Household Items

The seat rotated.

It was a good thing too, because Ona had been feeling a bit like a preserved fish in a very small tin. There was nothing quite like being trapped in hyperspace, in a ship she did not know how to fly, with a man whose face she could not see – who might also be dead, while being crammed into an area only slightly larger and slightly less comfortable than a coffin to give her anxiety. 

_ How do I treat injuries I can’t see? How do I even know if he hasn’t died already? _

It turned out that the only way to check if a Mandalorian was still alive without removing their helmet was to shove one’s hands under their collar and hope one was holding on tight enough to feel a pulse but not so tight that blood flow to important things would be cut off. She had found herself crawling into his lap, perching with one foot on his cuisse and the other on the chair’s armrest as she had pressed her ear against the front of his mask and listened for breaths. He had been breathing. Slowly. Shallowly. Ona had sighed in relief that she hadn’t gotten her life debt killed during their first time fighting together. She dropped her forehead to lean against his helmet for a moment. Her toes slipped off of smooth beskar and dug into the crevice between the seat and the arm, hitting a lever.

The seat rotated.

Not very well, especially not with his long legs in the way, but it did rotate. Ona squirmed inelegantly off of him and into the odd space at the back of the cockpit. Half of the floor there was taken up with the metal strongbox she had been using as a chair. The other half would fit, perhaps, her butt and crossed legs if she sat very, very still. Two long grooves marked the metal grating where a co-pilot or gunnar’s seat must have once been bolted. Ona checked on his breathing again. Then on the blood still dripping out from under his helmet. It seemed to be coming straight down from the front, sluggishly rolling around the seal under his chin which must have lost pressure at some point.

She didn’t recognize the coordinates on the nav computer, not that she recognized a lot of galactic coordinates, and the ship did not have a droid she could request information or advice from. The nav readout did indicate it would be hours before they exited hyperspace. Hours until Ona had any potential options of what to do with an injured and unconscious Mandalorian to whom she owed a life debt. If she had known how to fly, even a rudimentary understanding, she might have been tempted to set the ship down on the nearest habitable world. As it was she had to trust that he was taking them somewhere that they could get help. In the meantime, she had to keep him alive.

Treating a Mandalorian was easier said than done. Treating a Mandalorian in full beskar plate armor who weighed nearly three times what she did wasn’t easy even in theory. She assumed his injury wasn’t with his spine or he wouldn’t have been able to run the way he had. Head wounds - aside from stopping any bleeding, sealing any lacerations, and applying bacta - had only one cure as far as she was capable of providing: rest. The bacta she could provide immediately, carefully applying a dermasyringe of bacta to his carotid artery and hoping it would be enough to treat whatever was wrong with him. Ona did not figure he was going to get much rest slumped in his chair. 

If he fell forward, he could hit the controls and kill them both.

If she could switch places with him, then she could at least respond to alarms and fire the weapons if they were attacked. Ona might not be able to fly, but she did know how to send out a distress call if it came to that.

It took her an hour, moving centimeters at a time and sweating more than she had any right to in the low temperature but she eventually got him laying on his back on the floor. His helmet was flush against the weapons locker, making it impossible to open. There was one Ona-sized foot width between the base of the chair and the crotch of his pants. Ona huffed out an exhausted breath from maneuvering his massive legs into the only-slightly-wider than his bulk spaces between the sides of the chair base and the ship itself. She had been forced to get creative and put the strong box on the pilot’s seat, meaning she would be incredibly uncomfortable there and wildly unsafe since she wouldn’t be able to strap in. At least he was still breathing.

Ona eyed his armor critically. One of his gloves was burned across the palm and fingers, but it had not gone all the way through the leather. There was a hole in his duraweave shirt just below the elbow. It was dotted with blood but didn’t appear to be gushing. His nose - or something else under his helmet, was still bleeding but it had slowed significantly. If she couldn’t remove his armor, Ona wasn’t sure what to do for him. Finally, she settled for pressing a second dermasyringe of bacta and one of painkillers against the strip of bare skin between his neck armor and his helmet. His flesh was dark in color, and surprisingly rough under her fingers.

_ When would he have found time to shave? _

It was odd to think about the Mandalorian performing such mundane tasks. Ona supposed that there were people who felt the same way about the Blood Monks. It was difficult to reconcile a masked warrior with an image of washing laundry or personal grooming. She shook her head and took a seat on the strongbox.  _ This Mandalorian won’t need to worry about shaving ever again if that head wound doesn’t heal on its own.  _ Ona wouldn’t violate his order, what she guessed was a cultural imperative, but she couldn’t watch him die either. That was her imperative. She owed him her life and the lives of her brothers. She would just have to find a way to make certain he lived.

_ Better make sure you are in fighting condition first. _

She snorted softly to herself and pulled off her litham. The sweat that had gathered on her neck and hairline cooled to a clammy sheen in the chill recycled air. She was nervous and embarrassed at first, having to partially undress in front of him to attend her injuries with the kit. He stirred a few times, muttering in a language she didn’t understand, but never really woke. She reasoned that even if he had been awake, he had already seen far more of her than anyone outside of her brothers and sisters in the monastery since she was a toddler. A few cuts and scrapes, some moderate burns, and a rather deep but short laceration that must have come from busting through the ceiling, were all she had to show from the fight. She shivered as she redressed and tied on her makeshift belt again.

It had been fun. Sort of. Ona had not enjoyed a battle so thoroughly in a very long time. There had been no weak or ill-behaved or cowardly client to protect, no ill-conceived strategy she was forced to adhere to, only a partner she knew could hold his own. It was liberating, fighting alongside someone who was so skilled and strong and who did not question her skills or ideas but trusted her to do her part. She would admit she had not expected it of him. It was humbling and...nice.

She shivered again and settled in to wait for the Mandalorian to wake up or the ship to come out of hyperspace, whichever happened first.

_ Spirits, he has to wake up. _


	9. Now, Look At Mr. Frying Pan

“ _Why do you want one?”_

_ Brown eyes turned on Paz and stared. The taller boy almost let his question go; there was something about those eyes, the soft and pain-filled gaze of the newest foundling, that made him feel bad for asking. _

“ _Does it matter?”_

“ _Of course it matters, verd’ike.” Paz huffed out an irritated sigh and corrected the other boy’s fighting stance again. Paz was bigger and had trained for several years already, but the new foundling was older. In the mind of a_ _seven_ _-year old this meant that Din should catch on quicker. He was much smarter than Paz at orienteering and languages; he should have been smarter at fighting too. “Keep your weight on the squishy part of your feet, closer to your toes. You keep standing in your heels. That’s how I knocked you down in class.”_

_ They fought for a few moments. The advance, parry, attack, thrust of their wooden practice spears was loud in the little clearing outside the new covert. By the time they paused for a drink, Paz had moved on to thinking about how nice the weather was and how he hoped the covert would stay here for a while. _

“ _I...I want to look like you.”_

_ Paz glanced over at Din, scowling in his confusion. They were both human. Both children. Din was small and got sunburned sometimes if he was out all day, but he wasn’t deformed or a squid or anything. _

“ _Uh, you already do?”_

“ _No. I want…” The other boy’s cheeks flushed and he looked away before straightening his thin shoulders and making his jaw hard and square. “My face is...my mom, my first mom...I look like her. I remember her when she was...when they…”_

_ It was the most Paz had ever heard the other boy say all in one go. And those eyes, Paz wanted to use some words their buir would not approve of. Those eyes made him feel all twisted up inside, like he should do something to make Din not look like that. He briefly thought about punching him in the face, but decided it wouldn’t be fair, since Din had only had a few lessons on hitting so far. _

“ _I want to look Mandalorian.”_

_ Paz understood, even in his seven-year-old brain, exactly what Din meant. He didn’t want to look weak. He didn’t want to be weak. He didn’t want what had happened to his first parents to happen to him - or to anyone. Paz understood, because he thought that way too. He hadn’t seen his first parents die; he had been just a baby when Mandalore was glassed by the Empire, but he still got sad and angry and twisted up when he thought about how his buirs had been fighting to save Mandalorians and hadn’t been able to do anything in the end but die. His eyes were stinging. _

_ Paz shoved the canteen into Din’s chest and stood up, hands on his hips to lecture just like their buir. _

“ _Then listen to me when I tell you how to stand.” Paz waited until Din had taken a drink and picked up his spear again. “And also when I say we need to get back for dinner soon, cause I am starving and you’re so small the Imps will think you’re a womp rat instead of a Mandalor_ _ian_ _if you don’t get bigger.” They walked side-by-side through the tall grass for a long time without saying anything. Long enough that Paz knew his eyes were dry and he wouldn’t start crying again._

“ _Vor’e, vod,” Din murmured, his Mando’a just as good as a born Mandalorian - unlike his fighting stance._

“ _This is the Way, vod’ike.”_

Something was beeping.

Paz raised a hand to shut off the insufferable sound, but his arm had fallen asleep. His fingers twitched and pins and needles shot through his flesh. He opened his eyes to see only the blurry canopy of the cockpit and stationary stars dotting the darkness beyond. His HUD was silently issuing glowing warnings at him, giving the galaxy a halo that pulsed in off tempo to the beeping.

“ _Me’ashnar_ , Din,” he mumbled, the words coming out slow and raspy. Paz felt like he was floating in plasma, his limbs heavy and his head disconnected from his body. He was in trouble, and the only trouble he ever accidentally got into was because of his foundling brother. His current state must be an accident, because he didn’t remember how he had come to be in his ship or why his sight was sliding, slipping away from him.

“ Thank the Spirits. Are you going to stay awake this time?” An oval face, the color washed out by  a blinking red light, swirled into view. Hands patted at his beskar chest plate, his pauldrons, his gorget and then fluttered across his bare neck.  _ Too cold. Too bony. She needs to warm up. Eat up. Stew. _

“How are you feeling? Was it your nose that was bleeding? Your head? There aren’t any dents or punctures to the outside of your helmet.” Hands ran across his visor. _Can’t make stew in the Miy-iil._ She continued, “I can get you another bacta shot, some painkillers too, as soon as I figure out how to shut off this alarm.”

“Third row. Second from the bottom.” He gestured to the panel at his right, surprised his arm had obeyed him. Was that his arm? Was this his ship? Nothing was where it was supposed to be. He wasn’t where he was supposed to be. He should be in his chair, but he was lying down. Feeling was slowly coming back to his body, and Paz wished it wouldn’t. He had the suspicion that whatever had befallen him had hurt. A lot. The face disappeared and Paz frowned. He liked that face better than the cold view outside the ship. The pinpricks of distant stars hurt his eyes. He needed to check his HUD warning. It seemed like he might have missed something important. The noise and blinking abruptly cut off, easing the ache in his head for a moment.

“It looks like we arrived at...wherever you set our coordinates.”

_Our coordinates?_ Paz blinked his eyes open, only then realizing he had closed them. He had never traveled with a non-Mandalorian. This woman couldn’t possibly be a follower of the Way. Her face was uncovered, but it was a nice face. _Too thin. She needs stew. Bread._ Why didn’t they have that? His stomach was empty, curling with a wet sort of sourness. He should eat too.

“Was there somewhere in particular you wanted to set down? Can you...I mean, are you feeling up to flying? I’ve, uh, I’ve never flown before.”

Paz sat up, pushing himself to lean against the wall. He definitely did not want to eat. His stomach churned in a discordant tempo to the rising pulse of his brain. Why had he thought sitting was a good idea? Lying down had been good. Great, even. If he laid down again and she - right. She couldn’t pilot a starfighter. They needed to land. He opened his eyes again to find her sitting in his chair, a metal box under her backside.

“ _A throne of pure beskar?”_

“ _For the Mand’alor?”_

“ _No, not-”_

Paz forced his eyes open again and lurched forward to keep himself awake. He pressed one hand firmly against her stomach and used the other to yank the box out from under her. She sucked in a surprised breath. Inferior beskar alloy met his cuisses with a loud clang that reverberated in his bones and made his teeth ache.

“Strap in,” he ordered. “I’ll walk you through it.” She was looking at him like he was insane. And also maybe like she was worried he was dying. He was a bit touched at Ona’s concern. _Ona_ , he remembered. _This is Ona and she is a powerful fighter. Determined. She can take care of herself._ Hopefully, she would be able to take care of both of them because he was realizing that whatever blow he had taken to the head had rattled something loose. It was more than a concussion. He’d had plenty of those before. If there was swelling, bleeding... _I might actually be dying._ He didn’t have time to worry about that. He pressed down on the lever to rotate the seat and leaned heavily against the back of it to slide it forward as far as it would go.

“I don’t-” She started to protest but he interrupted her, closing his eyes and leaning his head over her shoulder. If he died before the ship landed, she would die too.

“ Tell me where we are.”  _ Shallow breath. Don’t vomit. _

“ I can’t read.” Her tone was beginning to rise.  _ Panic _ .

He had know that. Stupid of him to ask. “Numbers? Can you tell me the coordinates?” If he kept his eyes closed and didn’t try to focus too hard on anything, his skull felt a bit less like it was trying to strangle his brain.

After a pause, she rattled off the coordinates for a small, unnamed system outside the Abrion Sector. The star was dying, probably only had another few hundred years left before carbon detonation, and so the one habitable planet had been ignored for settlement. The covert often used it as a waypoint. It would be a good place to land and wait for either his head to heal or his final march to Manda to begin. Ona would survive there. The waypoint. Not Manda. Ona could never go to Manda unless-

_Focus_. His skull was breaking apart, splitting into sharp slivers that were slipping, sliding, slicing into his brain.

“There is a series of...of islands. Near the southern pole. You’ll take us there.”

“This isn’t-”

“The autopilot will help. And I am right here.” He braced his hand on the arm of the chair, practically curling over her in his desperate attempt to stay conscious and keep his body from falling apart. Eyes closed - he had the controls memorized and it was easier to concentrate without the light of the planet below them trying to sear his optic nerves - he instructed her on the basics. The autopilot would get them into the atmosphere at a safe angle and could land them, but she would have to navigate and find a stable spot on the surface. He could feel the sudden heat of friction on the canopy as they dipped closer to the planet, the glow turned the backs of his eyelids orange even through his visor.

Was the fire outside, or in his skull?

“It’s bucking me!”

“Pull up gently. Even out. Watch the altimeter.”

Ona was talking, he could feel the vibration of her voice against his helmet, but his ears were stuffed and dumb. He reached around her to help her with the stick, guiding her jerky movements with an ease of skill that was so ingrained in his muscles he didn’t have to look or think. Which was good because he wasn’t certain he was capable of doing either anymore.

“ _You don’t think, Paz Vizsla.”_

“ _I thought that’s why you liked me.” Paz did not slow his motions despite the obvious insult. He tucked himself back into his pants, leather gloves rough on sensitive skin, and adjusted his kute._

_ The woman, a Mandalorian from another covert he had been meeting occasionally over the last year to deliver messages on behalf of the Armorer - and after the first few times extending their rendezvous for other reasons, snorted as she replaced her helmet. She hadn’t bothered suggesting he remove his. “That is why I use you for this. I don’t like you - I don’t like anyone with a clan and name like yours that won’t use it.” _

_ Paz went cold. He knew what his ancestors had done. He knew what Vizsla’s had done to Mandalore - to Mandalorians - before he was even born. The suggestion that he should take up that mantle was unsettling. The suggestion that he should do it to garner the interest of a warrior that he had had nothing more than a few interludes of mutual relief with was beyond insulting. _

“ _All that power, and you won’t even try to take the throne. Is that why the Tribe is so orthodox? Don’t want the rest of us to see the faces of cowards?”_

“ _Negotiations are over,” he responded, fury barely controlled. “Do not attempt to contact my covert again.”_

_ She sneered, “Your Armorer-” _

Pain exploded in his head. White light blossomed inside the cockpit. Or inside his helmet. Or maybe just in his brain. They had landed, natural gravity tugging on his limbs and making his skull heavier. Paz forced his eyes open far enough to make out the blur of twilight outside the canopy. His gut churned. His vision wobbled.

“Kriffing krif! Kriffing - are you okay? Spirits, ugh, how do-”

He could hear her struggling with the harness.

“ Canopy,” he ordered through clenched teeth.  _ Shallow breath. Do not vomit. _ “ Green switch on the-” The hiss of the seal and the smells of salt and rich earth assaulted him. Paz used every ounce of his will to stand, forcing the canopy further open, and then climb out onto the wing. From there he fell gracelessly to the ground behind the ship. He had two seconds to lift the edge of his helmet above his mouth before he emptied his stomach and blacked out. Again.

_ *verd’ike - little warrior _

_ Buir - parent _

_ Vor’e, vod - thank you, brother _

_ Vod’ike - little brother. _

_ Me’ashnar - what have you done _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the Paz and Din dynamic. Like a buddy cop comedy: huge dude that everyone likes with a wicked temper and the serious badass that scares the shit out of people on the street but is really a gooey marshmallow inside. 
> 
> "Give up your boss?"  
> The dealer eyed the giant man in the blue suit seated across from him. He looked like he wouldn't need a phone book to beat a suspect. He looked like he could choke out a suspect with one hand and use the other to lift a firetruck. He swallowed hard and feigned apathy. "Who are you supposed to be? The bad cop?"  
> Paz shook his head and gestured over his shoulder to the interrogation room door that was creaking open. "No, that would be him."


	10. He's Only Mostly Dead

Ona had been concerned that she would not be able to keep up her strength and cardio training while she traveled with the Mandalorian in his tiny ship. Heaving an exhausted breath, she looked back on those naive thoughts of a few days ago with dark amusement. Between the fights he got into and how kriffing heavy he was when he was unconscious, Ona should have been more concerned about pulling a muscle.

She glanced over again at his prone body, lying as comfortable as she had been able to make him underneath the ship. She had collected some of the purple moss that seemed to grow everywhere and tried to make a cushion for his helmet. His cape she had draped over him as a blanket. She hoped he didn’t have any other injuries beneath all of his armor. If he did they had probably been exacerbated when she had been forced to roll him away from his puddle of sick. It was chilly on the small planet too, but she was reluctant to stray too far from him to look for firewood. 

_ At least he won’t get rained on if the weather changes. _

He had groaned and muttered foreign words when she had moved him, but seemed to fall into a restful sleep afterward. She hoped it was restful. They only had so many medical supplies, and she wasn’t certain if he should be receiving larger or more frequent doses due to his size.

Ona set the perimeter defenses and checked his pulse and breathing and made a mossy bed for herself, but she was aware that if the odd twilight did not break soon she was going to have to explore the wooded area further in from the landing site. In the dark. With no knowledge of the planet or what lived there. They had plenty of fresh water - she had at least had the presence of mind as she was having her first ever flying lesson to look for a stream. There was a cool breeze off of the ocean that surrounded the island but it was not cold, only merely uncomfortable. They had enough rations in the ship to last for a few days, even if they were both eating, and enough medical supplies to treat the Mandalorian three or four more times.

If he didn’t improve in the next twelve hours, she would have to consider examining under his helmet.

Spirits, Ona did not want it to come to that.

She had removed his weapons and utility belt before she had moved him - mostly to prevent any accidental discharges, but laid them out within arms reach should he wake. She studied what he had carried on him to help pass the time until sunrise.

“Have you ever met a weapon you didn’t like?” She murmured to his unresponsive helmet.

The number of grenades, detonators, guns and knives on his person was ridiculous. Ona would have bet that he had more - concealed as part of his armor or in his clothes - as well. He had a sizeable pouch of credits. A security card that had the same language printed on it as had been on the sign for the Quarran’s shop, back on the station. There was a data pad which she could turn on. She recognized the icons for a few tasks, including a basic scanner and a note-taking function. Mixed in with small repair parts for his blaster pistol were two shiny metal signets. The first, some sort of bird, was worn at the edges as if it had been rubbed smooth. The second was newer and looked like a tree branch. An uncomfortable shame tempered her curiosity upon seeing something that was probably personal to the Mandalorian, but she needed to know if he had anything that could help them.

_A pre-programmed communicator would be nice,_ she thought wryly. _Maybe if I could contact his people they would come here and not shoot the strange woman with the obviously injured Mandalorian._

The last pouch on his belt was stuffed nearly full with a length of silky cloth. The color was difficult to make out, something blue or purple, and it was wrapped around several items. Reaching in to pull it open, a stinging line of pain erupted on the side of her index finger. Ona dropped the bundle on her lap and popped the cut into her mouth, but not before several drops fell onto the cloth.

“Crik ,” she muttered around her finger. She hoped it wouldn’t stain. The cloth slid apart, slithering to cover her crossed lower legs, and Ona easily found her attacker. Several shards of glass were mixed in with a narrow band of dull metal, a data chip sealed in a bio-case, and a bone knife hilt. Carefully, she picked up the band. It was made of beskar, Ona was fairly certain. Etched into the surface were runes or letters but not those of Aurebesh that the Mandalorian had shown her. Each rune was inlaid with bone or some kind of shell. It was large enough that she wondered at its purpose.  _ Too big for a bracelet - unless it is for a Hutt. _

She set it in her lap and removed the other items as well to shake out the glass from the cloth. Potential cuts avoided, she examined the material for stains. There was no blood on it. None. And no frayed threads or damage from the glass. Relieved and surprised, she delicately folded everything back together and set it with the Mandalorian’s other belongings. She checked his breathing and pulse again before settling down to wait for dawn.

Ona was left waiting a long time.

For three days.

According to the ship’s clock, she endured three days of unending twilight punctuated by the Mandalorian’s occasional waking. He wasn’t always coherent, but she managed each time to get him to stand on his own long enough to relieve himself and then to eat and drink something. He had only thrown up once more - and most of it missed her. She used the last of the bacta and painkillers on him, and they did seem to improve his condition.

After the first twenty-four hours Ona had grown bored enough to risk scouting into the trees. The island was a few kilometers around and contained only small game. She had killed several feathered flightless creatures and roasted them over a fire. The taste was bland, but the Mandalorian had eaten more of that than anything else she had to offer him. During the forced downtime, Ona had even managed to wash her clothing and bathe in the river using a sweetly woodsy soap she had found tucked in with his supplies.

By the fourth day, his periods of waking were lasting several hours at a time and he had stopped speaking to her in the unknown language. He insisted he was completely healed. She believed him enough to hunt for their next meal on the far side of the island. Ona quickly cleaned another of the native birds and began the walk around the beach to the landing site. She was still nearly a half kilometer away when she could make out a figure standing in the river. She crouched, instinctively seeking the deeper shadows closer to the ground. In the dim light from the sun that was still below the horizon and the low burning fire, it took her a moment to realize their camp was not being invaded.

The Mandalorian was striding out of the water.

It was difficult to see much in the poor lighting, but she recognized the broad stretch of his shoulders and the powerful build of his legs. His  _ bare  _ legs. His  _ bare  _ shoulders.  The Mandalorian was naked .

Ona turned around as quickly and quietly as possible and ran back the way she had come. Her face was burning in shame and embarrassment. He hadn’t wanted her to remove his helmet, even when he might have died, she doubted he would be happy she had seen the rest of him even if she hadn’t been able to make out any details. Ona sternly reminded herself that she did not want to make out any details. He would not want her to, and the Monastery required celibacy of all of its monks.

_It didn’t use to,_ a wicked voice suggested in her head. _Not before the Hutts took control._

The policy had kept the martial secrets of the Blood Monks more contained, unable to be passed from parent to child as they had been long ago. Instead, only those chosen by the Hutts’ proxies at the monastery were allowed to train at the highest levels and then serve the criminal lords. Ona knew her brothers, Aus and Illiam, shared a love that had no doubt become physical as soon as they felt safe to do so. She knew that Aus had wanted children to share with Illiam. Children to teach and to love. If they were free to ignore the vows forced on them, then she should feel free as well. Of all her brothers and sisters, only Aus and Illiam had ever spoken to her of breaking their collars. 

_Spirits, how_ _foolish can you be. One taste of freedom and you think you can live like a normal person_ _._ Ona physically slapped herself and let the sting in her cheek be a reminder that she had a debt to pay, he had a strange aversion to anyone seeing his face, and life as a slave and loaned out bodyguard did not prepare a person with the social skills necessary to have an intimate relationship. Or the actual skills. Her knowledge was extremely general and vague in that area. Her freedom was a great enough gift. Ona would be content with that, content with a life debt to a person who deserved and appreciated her skills. She walked all the way around the island in the other direction to make sure he would have enough time to redress in privacy.

“I was about to go looking for you,” he called out once she crossed the river. Thankfully, he was sitting up against one of the landing struts, feeding the fire and cleaning one of his weapons. Fully dressed and armored. He tipped his helmet when she didn’t immediately respond. “Ona, did you-”

“I saw you,” she blurted out. Her face was hot. She forced her eyes to remain open and focus on his helmet. “Just now. Er, before. I didn’t mean to. I came back while you were...erhm. Washing up. Sorry.”

He was quiet for so long that she began to think he had not heard her. She opened her mouth to - she didn’t know what, apologize again, perhaps, but he spoke first.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He sounded...strangled. “The fault is mine. I should have waited until you were back and then moved away from camp. It is not your fault.” She could see the hard swallow that moved his collar and gorget. “The Creed is intact, but I apologize if you were made uncomfortable.”

Absolved, Ona should have felt better. Instead she felt worse.

“What...what is the Creed? If you can say,” she rushed out. A whisper followed, “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It is the Way.” He paused for a moment, then a snuffling sort of laugh came through his modulator. “It was the Way. Din, _gar di’kut_.”

“The Way?” She asked quietly.

“Mandalorians follow the _Resol’nare_. Six tenants. We...they...the Tribe, the people who raised me…” A long exhale came through his helmet, and then he picked up his blaster again, scrubbing at the barrel to remover scoring. “Mandalorians revere armor and weapons, but there is a more conservative following that states once you have removed your helmet in front of another living creature, you may not put it back on. It is my Creed. Was all of the Tribe’s oath. It is why I asked you not to touch my helmet, even when I had blacked out from my injury.”

He didn’t explain further. Ona turned that information over in her mind, thinking of her own vows and what they meant to her. Although she had a clear distinction in her mind as to those she would have made of her own volition in order to become a monk and those that the Hutts had imposed on her people as a means of control, she could grasp how the Mandalorian would be shaken by such a breech.

“Is it...I’m sorry if this is too personal. Do not feel you have to answer, but...what does ‘in front of’ entail? And ‘living creature’? Does that include krill? Or birds?”

A short, muffled laugh vibrated his helmet. “Din would like you.” Ona managed not to ask who Din was. He continued, “I always took living creature to mean sentient. Although there is some debate about droids on that front.” He muttered, “By some very few, very stupid, very unlucky Mandalorians.”

“And ‘in front of’? I ask because, well, if you are outside, is that anyone else who is outside on the same planet? The same continent?”

He answered slowly. “Inside, it is someone in the same room. Outdoors...if they know you are there - if they can see your face, that would violate the Creed. Do not feel guilty On-”

“Because I couldn’t,” she rushed out, eager and nervous for him to understand. “I didn’t see your face. I mean, I knew it was you. Who else would be standing naked on this island on a deserted planet? But I was too far away - way up the beach, and it is too dark here to see your face from that distance.”

Silence fell again. Ona would have thought he was done speaking but for how his helmet stayed focused on her.

“I was wearing my helmet.”

Ona blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I had washed my face and helmet in the ship earlier. I bathed in the river with my helmet on.”

“Oh.” So she had not accidentally disobeyed him or broken his oath. Ona felt her cheeks heating and dipped her face to look at her lap. She had been so distracted by his...everything else, that she had not even noticed his face or lack thereof.

“Thank you for being honest with me.”

“You are welcome, Mandalorian.”

“Paz.”

She blinked stupidly. “What?”

“My name. Paz Vizsla. Please do not use it in front of outsiders.”

“Oh. Thank you. Paz.”

He inclined his head. She eventually remembered the bird carcass in her hand and spitted it to roast over the fire. Ona had settled against her own landing strut and was trying to forget the tension of the last hour when he spoke again.

“It is almost a pity for you.”

“What’s that?” She asked, closing her eyes and enjoying the heat of the fire.

“To have missed an opportunity to see any details. Next time you can get closer, if you feel cheated.”

Ona choked on her own breath.

_ *gar di’kut - you idiot _


	11. Just a Little Bit of Peril

Paz listened to Ona’s steady breathing and stared up at the underside of the Miy-iil trying to figure out why he had teased her. Giving her his name had been an easy decision. She had fought alongside him, cared for him while he was injured, and respected his request not to touch his helmet. He had known without a doubt when he finally woke that she had never removed it. Although the seal was broken, it had been stuck to his skin with dried blood. His filtered air had tasted of stale vomit. If she had taken off his helmet, neither of those would have been true. Given what she had said of his symptoms, what little he remembered of his injury, and the health warning history in his HUD, he had been on the bleeding edge of death - and still she had not broken his Creed.

She had given him her name, her trust, her debt. She had earned his trust in return. Paz was not Din. He did not have a lot of interaction with outsiders and those he did had rarely left a good impression. Ona was different.

It had felt good to hear her say it. Paz Viszla. As if it meant more to her than just a name, just a clan, just a long, bloody, black-stained, weighty history.

Calling her out on seeing his body? That had been for fun.

Paz could count on one hand the number of people who had seen him naked since he had learned to wipe his own  backside . The Medic. Din and another foundling that they had learned to swim with. One female Mandalorian in his younger years - and they had  _ both  _ kept their helmets on. No one had seen his face since he had sworn the Creed. He had killed the few who had tried. The knowledge that Ona had seen his body, even from as far away as she had said and in the fuzzy purple twilight, should have made him uncomfortable. It did, but he was uncomfortable in a completely unexpected way .

Paz glanced at her sleeping form. In the glow of the smoldering fire he could still make out the high angle of her cheekbone and the arch of one dark eyebrow. He tried to examine what it was about her that had warmth settling low in his belly and a smile twitching at his mouth. Every culture had an idealized form for their sexual partners. Kitonak of all three genders preferred full blubber reserves and soft skin. Jawas were appalled by body hair. Twi’leks prized graceful movement and flexible lekku. Humans seemed to have no set standards - the cultures on each planet dictating what they found beautiful: short or tall, thin or round, dark or light, simple or ornate. Mandalorians valued warrior skills, strength, and loyalty above all other things. Although Ona was not particularly strong in comparison to Paz, she was highly skilled in combat. She could have left him on the station, she could have let him die on the ship; her loyalty to her oath had been tested and proven beskar-clad. It was something a Mandalorian could appreciate.

He had never been one to consider physical appearance. It seemed like a waste of time given his Creed, but he was aware that there were other coverts that did not follow the same Way. Those who were less orthodox and who removed their helmets when among family and close friends or even - it made Paz’s skin crawl to think about it - whenever they were not fighting. He wondered what those Mandalorians considered beautiful. If Mandalore had never fallen to the Empire and Clan Vizsla had redeemed themselves and he had been raised in a more relaxed Way, would he have been attracted to bony little fighters with braids the color of Jhen honey and skin a shade darker? Would it have been important to him to find a riduur with eyes like polished scentwood?

Paz closed his eyes and huffed out a breath. Analyzing the why of it would not make him enjoy the flush of her cheeks or the lithe motions of her fighting style less. It would not prevent his eyes from tracing the long length of her legs as she flexed and held exaggerated kata poses. It would not suddenly make her Mandalorian or him not bound by Creed. He resolved to not think about it. He could admire Ona and perhaps tease her a bit and know he had an excellent warrior at his back. That was all it needed to be.

An hour after waking, Paz revised his opinion. That was not all it needed to be. He had no idea what she wanted or how she viewed him, but Paz was extremely clear in his own head that he wanted more. He was not sure what, if anything, he should do about it.

She had run through her training exercises before breakfast, working hard enough to develop a sheen of sweat on her skin. After eating she had gone into the trees upriver to wash while he went through his own training routine. The days of sleeping and trying not to move his head had left him sore and feeling lazy. All that was forgotten when she reemerged from the woods, carrying her chest binding against the front of her shirt. Her hair hung damp and loose down her back.

She was beautiful. Until that moment, Paz couldn’t have said what beautiful looked like, but dark bronze hair and scrubbed golden skin made the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

“Paz?”

He froze at his name, taking in the furrow between her brows. She had been speaking to him. He had no idea what she had said.

He cleared his throat. “Did you need something?”

“I asked if you would check the bandages on my back. Are you okay? Is your head hurting again?” She stepped closer and a sweet scent suffused the air around her. S _oap._ She had used his bar. On her body. He took another deep, unfiltered breath. He had never been so grateful for a broken helmet seal.

“I was...thinking.” He winced at his poor excuse. “Turn around. Do you want to sit?”

She knelt on the mossy ground and he followed suit. The dark blue of her shirt shifted and slipped, slowly falling off of her shoulders to pool at her elbows. His hands were too big. Big and awkward and he wasn’t sure what to do with them. Her hair was in the way, but his gloves were thick and dirty. He stripped them off. Gently, careful not to touch her skin, he gathered up the heavy, silky strands and draped them over one shoulder. The skin on the back of her neck was paler than her hands or face. The knobs of her spine were a little too prominent, making him very aware of how much stronger he was and how he could easily snap her.

“You don’t eat enough,” he said instead of tracing the curve of her shoulder with his finger. The bacta patches he had applied days ago were frayed and worn at the edges, the medicine long past absorbed into her body, but it would have been difficult for her to remove them by herself or to judge the rate of healing without a mirror. He started working on one corner, peeling slowly so the adhesive would not pull her skin.

“Is that what you were thinking about?” There was a smile in her voice. “How much I eat?” The skin under the first patch was pink and tender looking, but unblemished. Paz moved to the next.

“If you had more bulk to you, I wouldn’t have to worry about it.” He traced along a spidery scar. The burn there must have been more severe than the rest. It might still fade. If it did not, every time he saw it he would remember how she had fought in the cantina. The bow of her back and the dance of her feet as she broke a man’s neck. His pulse kicked up a beat. He probably shouldn’t think about seeing her bare skin in the future.

“Bulk?” She was definitely laughing at him, her shoulders trembling with the effort to hold it in.

“ You’d never survive a lean season,  _ shiib verd’ika _ . There’s no reserves on you.” The last patch was low on her back. He tugged gently on her tunic and she obligingly slipped out one arm and then the other so that the garment fell to the ground. Her waistband was in the way. His mouth was dry. “Okay if I fold this down?” He tapped at the top of her hip. He needed a drink of water. Something to wet his tongue so he could speak properly. Something to wash the scent of her out of his throat.

“Are you comparing me to a herd animal?” A full-throated laugh escaped her. The sound was low and husky and made the skin under his armor prickle. “Because I honestly thought you were wondering how to open that data chip, not imagining how poorly I would survive in a-” She laughed again and Paz shivered. “- a lean season.” She loosened the ties at her hips and wiggled, letting the cloth sag. Her feet were tensed, her weight resting on her upturned heels and pushing the muscles of her backside high and round. He could just make out a shadow in the center that- _You are supposed to be taking care of her injury, not fantasizing._ He tore off the last bandage with more speed and force than he should have. It must have stung, but she didn’t complain and he was able to stand and move away quickly, turning his back on her.

“It is a bio-digital lock. Likely coded in to either a single individual or a bloodline. Given the age of the other items in the same case, it is possible that there is no one left alive with enough similar genetic material to be able to access the information. We might have to crack it, but I don’t have the equipment for that here.”

“You know how to do that?” She stepped up beside him, looking at the side of his helmet as if she could see his expression underneath. The pale blue of her bindings disappeared quickly under her tunic. He watched her deft fingers make quick work of belting everything closed.

Paz shrugged to cover how much her close attention made him want to squirm. “Lots of weapons systems have hard coded security measures that require heavy public key encryption of sixteen three eighty-four bit or higher. Genetic based algorithms surpass that and are harder to lose.”

She laughed again, softer and with open admiration on her face. “And here I felt stupid that you can read multiple languages when I don’t even know one. Did you have to go and be a computer splice on top of it?”

“I don’t…” He frowned, finally turning to face her. “Security and encryption is part of the training all Mandalorian children go through.”

She raised a brow, still smiling. “And they all end up knowing as much as you and being able to break security that hasn’t been breached for what, a few decades?”

If the chip was as old as the jewelry it had been with, it was more like a few centuries, but Paz had a feeling she would make a bigger deal out of it if he admitted to exactly what skills he needed to use. He wasn’t sure how he felt about her admiration. Maths were just something he did to be able to make sniper shots and calculate hyperdrive coordinates without a nav computer and better secure the covert. It wasn’t like it was something he actually worked hard at or was particularly proud of. He would rather she notice his Rising Phoenix technique or his aim with a heavy blaster.

“I have some friends who might be able to assist.” _And maybe Din can help me get my head straight. Whatever advice he has, I’ll know to do the opposite._ Paz began packing up the few things they had strewn about the campsite while he recovered. He felt safe flying again; his headache had stayed away for nearly twelve hours and his vision had been clear for two days.

“Are these friends likely to shoot at us?”

He and Din hadn’t taken shots at each other in years. Blades, certainly. Punches? Every time they got together, but they weren’t actively trying to kill each other. Suvi might shoot at Paz - she would definitely have no problem taking aim at Din, but that was because Suvi was an enigma. One who had thus far treated him as a long lost, well-fed, relative and he hoped to keep it that way. Paz shrugged and dropped the ration kit back in the cockpit.

“And they say Mandalorians aren’t mysterious.” Ona laughed again as if she had told a hilarious joke.

He waited while she vaulted up into the ship, but when she started putting things away instead of explaining he climbed up as well and settled in the pilot seat. Questions were tumbling around in his head. He wanted to know where the loom was, or at least how he could get a new lead. He wondered how Din was doing on his current tragic mission. He wondered why the Armorer had given him this assignment and why in _haran_ the covert even needed a loom and why anyone would have wanted to take it from Mandalore in the first place. He wanted to know why, after nearly forty years of life, he had developed a sudden and intense desire for golden skin and cold, bony fingers. He wondered if he would ever know what Ona was thinking when his bare hands were brushing against her back.

Paz would like a lot  _ less  _ mystery in his life.

_ *Shiib verd’ika - skinny little warrior _

_ haran - hell _


	12. I'd Like to Have an Argument, Please

“We aren’t meeting them here?”

Ona glanced around the crowded marketplace. It would be an easy place to lose a tail or hide a client - not that she had clients anymore. _Or ever again,_ she thought with vicious satisfaction. Cheerful stalls were packed side by side into every courtyard and street. A maze of narrow alleyways and pink adobe buildings layered one atop the other all the way to the mouth of the wide canyon that housed Okubili. It wasn’t the most populous city on the planet, but it still had thousands of inhabitants. It was large enough for a stranger to be ignored but not so large that it had a well organized or connected security force. Ona had the feeling that Paz had selected it as their refueling stop for those very reasons. That, and it was within the Miy-iil’s range from the twilight planet.

“No.”

She stared at the side of his helmet in surprise. He had been talkative during the long hours in hyperspace to reach their destination, working with her on recognizing Aurebesh and the various controls in the ship. The lessons had been liberally peppered with stories, questions, and humor. Ona had laughed and spoken more about herself than she had since she was a child. His change in demeanor put her on alert, and she adjusted her litham to cover her mouth and nose. If there was a reason to be on guard, she wanted to be ready. The enjoyment she had been taking in the warm sunshine, colorful clothing, and smiling faces faded as she began assessing potential threats. She slipped into the shadows, staying close to Paz as he stopped at several merchant booths to make purchases and buy information. She was so focused on preparing their defense she heard almost nothing of his conversations and was startled when he urged her into a cool, empty alley.

“Are you prepared for an attack?”

“Did you see someone?” Ona tried to peer around his broad shoulders, annoyed with herself for having missed something he had caught. She braced her left foot against his cuisse, using him as a step ladder so she could better scan the crowd. “What kind of trouble are you expecting?”

“No. None.”

“None?” She gripped his cuirass just under his collarbone and lowered herself down again to be concealed by his bulk, all her weight on his thigh armor and chest plate. Ona glanced at his visor, taking in the angle of his helmet and the curve of his arms. One hand was hovering behind her, as if she might need support. The other was concealed by the fall of his cloak, but was likely on his blaster. She pulled down her litham to frown at him. “Then why are you so tense?”

“I am not tense. I-”

She huffed in disbelief. “This is the most you have spoken to me in eighty minutes.”

“I…” His hand settled on the back of her right leg, supporting more of her weight in his firm hold and taking any strain off of her fingers. Her muscles flexed without her permission. He squeezed back gently but didn’t remove his hand. Ona focused on his even breathing rather than the heat she could swear was seeping through thick layers of leather and linen directly to her skin. “I ran out of things to say.”

She cocked an eyebrow. “We are surrounded by a beautiful city that I have never seen before and you probably know a great deal about. You have a shopping list that you haven’t brought up at all. You haven’t said a word about your friends that we are supposed to meet. Spirits, Paz, you spent a half hour on the ship telling me about your favorite knife. You really didn’t have anything else to talk about?

“I thought I might be...boring you.”

If Ona had ever felt the desire to gamble - or had anything to gamble with - she would have bet all her savings that Paz Vizsla, Mandalorian warrior, was blushing under his helmet. She had no idea  _ why _ . “Mando,” she said, conscious that he had asked her not to use his name in public, “you are the most interesting thing that has happened to me in  almost  thirty years. There is literally nothing you could say that would bore me.” He was quiet for several long minutes, long enough that she was growing self-conscious of her position tucked against his chest with her fingers digging into his shirt. He squeezed her leg again, tipping his forehead slightly toward hers.

“Would you like to hear about the program I wrote to inventory and monitor munitions stores?”

_ Okay, maybe that would bore me. _ “ Er-”

“Oh!”

Ona twisted around to see an older woman with a basket of baked goods on one hip and a child’s hand in the other. They had paused at a turn further down the alley. The child’s eyes were wide, mouth hanging open. The woman was blushing, stumbling over her words in embarrassment, but also laughing.

“A little early for that sort of thing, isn’t it?”

Paz made a harsh sound under his helmet, a word in another language that Ona doubted was very nice. His hand slid from her thigh to her waist and he lowered her to the ground before straightening to his full height and turning to face the woman.

“Oh, uh. Hm.” The woman blushed harder and performed an odd sort of curtsy. “Excuse me, sir. We just need to pass by.”

Paz inclined his helmet and moved to stand flush against the wall to give the woman and child as much space as possible. It resulted in Ona being squashed against his side. It wasn’t painful, but his utility belt was pressing against her uncomfortably. She smiled politely at the woman and dug her elbow into his waist where the ceramic plating gapped just above his belt. He grunted and caught her arm, forcing it to wrap around her own ribs and pinning her to him. Ona pressed the top of her foot to the back of his knee, digging her toes in just enough so that he would know she could drop him if she wanted to. The woman didn’t notice their silent battle for control.

“Come on, Callum, let’s go get that fish your mother wanted.” At the last moment, just before she was swallowed up by the growing crowd on the street, the woman glanced over her shoulder at Ona and winked. “Lucky girl.”

“ _Copad’kyramud_ ,” Paz mumbled under his breath.

“Why does she think I’m lucky?”

“She’s just a busybody,” Paz replied, releasing her stiffly and picking up the bag he had dropped at their feet.

“She was very polite,” Ona pointed out. “And we were in her way.”

He abruptly changed the subject. “We should get food.”

“Don’t you still have some things on your list?” The hangar mechanic had given them an estimate on how long refueling would take. They didn’t have much time left.

He pulled a datapad from his belt and then handed it to her. “Yes. We’ll finish and grab some food and stay here tonight.”

“What about your friends?”

He shrugged. “They won’t make the rendezvous coordinates for another nineteen hours - assuming they haven’t decided to siege an Imperial cruiser or accidentally start a revolution or something. What letter does this start with?” He pointed to the first line on the datapad. It was a difficult one.

“ _Krill_?”

“Close. _Jenth_. As in jamming your elbow into my spleen is not wise and _jenth_ as in Jhen honey, which we need to get next.” He kept his dominant hand free at his side, but pressed the other lightly to the small of her back to urge her forward.

Ona wanted to return to their previous conversation. She wanted to ask what it was Paz had said in that unknown language, but there were too many people around. If she demanded answers it would cause a scene. Ona did not like being the center of attention. She resolved to ask him about it later, instead questioning, “Do you like sweet things?”

“ _Ma’eyir copaanir_ ,” he muttered, then cleared his throat. “The honey is for a friend. Keep an eye out for an orange awning with pink stripes, they were up on the left the last time I was here. Okubili is known for their food. They make a salted fish you eat with a minty sauce and…”

Paz kept up a steady, low-spoken stream of conversation for the next three hours. They found the honey, and he bought an extra jar when she mentioned that she had never tasted it. The vendor remembered Paz from previous visits and handed him a paper envelope of candied flowers free of charge. Unable to eat in the crowd, he encouraged her to try them. Ona had moaned at the taste, causing Paz and several others to stare and the vendor to smile - pleased. She did try to save half of them for the Mandalorian, but found her fingers dipping in for another sweet, crisp treat far too often as they wandered the market.

_Forn_ \- she remembered it immediately as the shape of a hand pulling armor off of a shelf - was the first letter of fleekskin, of which Paz bought a half-meter. Then there was a vendor selling small loaves of pale bread with warm, dark nut butter. At Ona’s request the woman wrapped one in a sheet of parchment to be tucked into the satchel for Paz to eat later. _Besh_ was for bronzium that came in a spool of incredibly thin wire and cost an exorbitant amount. Ona was pleased that she could guess correctly other words that led with _besh_ : bread, balance, beskar, and brains that had been recently battered. Paz had not found that example as funny as she had. He bought tea leaves - starting with _trill_ , a variety of small repair parts - parts started with _peth_ , and a small package of dried seeds from a spicy fruit that had a tricky name. Several letters were written, but not pronounced. Ona felt Paz was cheating in their game of teaching her to read. His shoulders shook with silent laughter and he squeezed her waist in his big hand.

“Not cheating,” he said once he had himself under control. “Just giving you a more advanced lesson. There is a place we can stay up ahead. The hostess will like you - try not to be offended.”

That had brought up another round of questions, but she didn’t get any answers out of Paz as he led her into a shaded courtyard surrounded by a high pink wall. It turned out the questions answered themselves as the owner was working in one of the garden plots and immediately stood to greet them.

“Mando, terrible to see you again. Wish you would stay away. I’ll charge double if you break any more of my furniture. Who is this scrawny thing you have manhandled into my house? Have you been starving her? Come here, girl. Come here and let Marta look at you.” The waifish human woman pushed at Paz as if she had any hope of moving him and seized Ona’s hands. She could have avoided the contact, of course, but the tiny, fast-talking woman was obviously not a physical threat. Her simple clothes made it clear she carried no weapons either.

“We need a room.”

Marta ignored him as if he wasn’t even there. “Callouses like this-! Why do you keep bringing me such deplorable creatures, Mando? Do I look like a shelter to you? Can you not hear me through your thick helmet?” She made a tutting sound, and then leaned her face in as if she would rub her cheek against Ona’s. “Just as I suspected. Chilled and smelling of nothing but _ori’verd_ and hyperspace fuel.” One of those words had sounded like the language Paz used. Ona did pull away at that, glancing at him to see his reaction. He had closed the gate leading back to the street and was preparing to sit on a bench in the little garden area.

“Don’t even think of it, Mando!” Marta pointed a finger at him even as she pulled Ona toward the front door. “I have one chair you are allowed to sit in. One! You know this after last time! Great hulking beast,” she muttered. In a louder voice that was just as commanding she spoke to Ona, “I’ll draw you up a bath before dinner. Do you have your own soaps? Oil for your hair? Of course not. No doubt he did not think of it. Never does. Foundlings. Ha.” She continued muttering, tugging Ona up a winding set of dark wood stairs. “Eat me out of house and home, he will. Too kind, that’s what I am. Too generous to that krayt in his tin can. Well, don’t you agree girl?”

Marta’s demand came with a sudden stop and Ona had to pivot quickly to avoid walking into her back. If anything, the woman was rude, not kind, but Paz had said not to take her words personally. He clearly didn’t. Marta opened a cupboard and withdrew soft towels, bedding, and an open box of bottles and packages that smelled divine. She shoved everything against Ona’s chest, forcing her to carry it or let it fall to the floor.

“Krayt dragon? I’ve never actually seen him eat a _whole_ bantha. But I wouldn’t rule it out.”

Narrowed dark eyes bore into her for a moment before Marta announced, “I like you.” One finger came up to point only a few inches from her nose. “You’ll do what I say, unlike that ruffian downstairs.” She pushed open the door to another room, soft sunlight filtering in through sheer curtains. “Well, get going! I haven’t got all day to wait on you, girl. You’ll have to wash your own hair. How old are you, anyway?” She prodded Ona along and continued without waiting for a response. “Old enough to soap yourself at least, not like the last one.”

That made Ona’s brows go up. She had not been under the impression that Paz made a habit of picking up companions. “I have been washing myself for many years now.”

“Are you sassing me, girl?” Marta glared and slid open double wood doors that led to the most beautiful refresher Ona had ever seen. A wide tub was carved out of a niche in the wall. The same red stone that made up the canyon curved around the little space while the other three walls were pink adobe. She wondered if most of the buildings backed into the rock like that. If it could be tunneled, it would make an excellent hidden fortification.

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” she murmured. She could not help but stare at the flow of steaming water Marta turned on to fill the enormous tub. With the suffused late afternoon sunshine and the soft scents Marta poured into the water Ona almost believed she had died and joined the Spirit realm.

“Hrum. See that you don’t.” Marta pointed out the sonic shower tucked into the corner and demanded that Ona use it before getting in the bath. Her arms were slowly emptied as Marta readied the towels on a little warming rack and set out toiletries next to the sink and some others on the edge of the tub. “...for after you wash your hair. Let’s go, girl. Chop, chop!” She clapped her hands together and then began pulling at Ona’s belt. “What is this? A rag? It will probably fall apart in the laundry. He should know better. And now I’ll need to order in some things for you, as if I wouldn’t be busy enough trying to cook for that bottomless sarlacc pit he calls a stomach. I had planned to spend the evening alone, you know. Some people like to be alone. Some people like privacy and time to consider the thoughts in their own head and not to be constantly having to harangue others into doing what they ought.”

Ona seriously doubted that Marta would have preferred to be alone. She was swiftly gaining the impression that the woman liked having someone to boss around.

“You aren’t leaving after you change, are you? Sometimes he-” she cut herself off and sniffed. Ona stopped trying to fend the woman off and gave in, undressing herself. She did desperately want a bath, and her clothes probably smelled worse than she did. Her wash in the river had been a long time ago and the walk through Okubili had left her sweaty. “Of course you won’t. I’ll tell him you are staying the night, at least. I’ll send up a robe for you to wear for dinner - no need to worry, I don’t have any other guests. Not for several weeks now. All this big house to clean and no one thinks to stay and people simply have no manners. None! Mando hasn’t-oh.”

Ona paused, bare feet on the smooth wood floor, pants pooled around her ankles, as she finished unwrapping her chest. She pulled off her litham slowly, hoping the woman wasn’t noticing the faint whip scars on her legs that disappeared beneath her underwear. She liked Marta, but she didn’t want to have to explain how the Hutt-approved enforcement of monastery rules worked.

“ _Quite_ a bit older than the other ones,” Marta said archly.

“Excuse me?”

“Nothing,” Marta sniffed and waved a hand. The corners of her mouth were suspiciously tight, as if she were trying hard to control her face. “I’ll just add these to the wash.” She gathered everything up and turned her head, hand out while she waited for Ona’s last garment. “It would be a waste of water to wash them alone, but I don’t suppose Mando will hand over his _kute_. That stubborn one never listens. Always leaving before resting, breaking my chairs with his stupid heavy armor, refusing to take food with him that will just go to waste here with only me to eat it. I know what is good for him. He’ll listen to me this time or I swear I’ll…” Whatever else she had to say was muffled by closed doors as she left Ona alone in the bath.

All questions of how Paz had come to know Marta faded away once Ona was able to slip into the bath. It was still hot. After spending most of her life in forced servitude, living with only the barest necessities to keep her healthy enough to fight, Ona had to wonder if she was living in a dream. She settled her head back against the warm stone and breathed in a content sigh. Her muscles relaxed, aches she hadn’t realized she carried melted away. If this was the result of taking a life debt oath to a Mandalorian, Ona would recommend it to anyone.

  
  


_ *copad’kyramud - desire assassin, mood killer, i.e. cockblocker _

_ Ma’eyir copaanir - I want to find out _

_ Ori’verd - big warrior _

_ kute – flight suit to which Mandalorian armor is attached _


	13. I Thought You Hired Him

“Exactly what are you playing at, Mando?” The serious demand echoed from the hallway.

Paz froze, helmet tipped up just enough to slide a piece of cake underneath. The rapid approach of Marta’s angry footsteps alerted him that she knew exactly where he was. He shoved the rest of the cake in his mouth and let his helmet fall and reseal while he chewed, turning to face her as she entered the kitchen.

“I’ve looked after you and all the little foundlings you have dragged through here over the years,” she began.

Paz took exception to the term ‘dragged’. The children rescued and brought to the covert always came willingly - they had no one else and the Creed did not allow Mandalorians to accept a foundling that had any other family who could take them. Certainly, there had been the one boy that he had no choice but to carry, but the child had been sensitive and nearly catatonic after his entire settlement was destroyed by pirates. He was doing well now. The Armorer had placed him in training for base operations and the last time Paz had checked in the boy was thriving, his single-minded attention to detail perfect for inventory of arms and supplies. He might even become a majordomo when he was old enough and help select covert sites and funnel supplies to the Tribe. Paz did not interrupt Marta, however. He knew better.

“I’ve let them all go because I know that they will be well cared for and protected with your people, and because I know you and _shev’la verd_ will watch out for them. But if you think that woman is another child to be handed a blaster and a tin can, you better think again. I don’t know how much light gets through that thick visor of yours but you better get your eyes checked if you haven’t noticed that she is most definitely not a foundling. If I ever-”

“I noticed.”

“Don’t interrupt me you horrible lump! If for even one moment I thought that you were taking advantage of that poor half-starved little-”

Paz stood, towering over Marta. His helmet brushed against the herbs hanging from the ceiling. “Are you questioning my honor?”

She was not intimidated. It was what Paz liked most about Marta.

“Have you done anything to make me question it?”

“ No.” He’d  _ thought  _ about it, but he hadn’t  _ done  _ anything.

Her eyes narrowed, hands on hips. “Are you  _ going  _ to do anything to make me question it?”

“No.” Paz felt a smile grow, grateful the ornery innkeeper could not see his amusement. “Not unless she asks me to.”

“Hrmp. You’ll remember your manners, Mando.” She pushed past him and into her pantry, bringing out an armload of food and gesturing to the stool he had just vacated. Marta’s voice lowered in volume, but not intensity. “Your friend has more scars than I did when you found me, and I had been in an Imperial interrogation cell for six months.”

His jaw clenched, remembering. He had been so young then - on a training mission with Din and a half dozen other kids eager to prove themselves warriors. They had found a lot more than an Imp supply depot to raid. Marta, years older than him, malnourished, covered in needle marks and bruises, had spit fire at the Mandalorians and threatened them with a waste bucket. She had impressed Paz, even then. She was a survivor. Few of the others who had been held in that location had been as lucky. She had been too old to become a foundling, although Paz suspected she would have made an excellent Mandalorian, so he and Din had helped her get settled in Okubili - far from the Empire. Marta had grown stronger and more opinionated every time Paz had visited.

“My Denell was the most patient, most kind, most gentle soul ever to walk on two legs and he looked it. Even with his soft smile it still it took me years to accept him.” Marta’s voice hardened suddenly and she pointed a very sharp knife at Paz. “Don’t you go bothering her if you aren’t going to stick it out. That one needs patience and softness, and you look like you have all the softness of the bitey end of a rancor.”

Paz did not mention Ona’s life debt, or his Creed, or his own uncertainties and desires. He simply nodded his head.

“That’s what I thought.” She hrumphed again and he smiled to himself. “I’ll get your usual room ready while you use the ‘fresher. You smell like sweat and those sickly sweet flowers that Ursula sells down in the market. Did she charge you? She shouldn’t. Her recipe is terrible. Why you would even eat that garbage when there is perfectly decent food here where you can have privacy? I do not understand you _ori’verd_. What are you sitting around here for? Go! And leave your _kute_ in the hall.” She threatened him with the knife again. “All. Of. It. I already put clean things on the counter for you.”

Paz would never mention it to Marta, but as he walked down the corridor toward the stairs he heard her irritated grumbling switch to a light hum. It was good to be among friends. Not as comfortable as the covert or being with other Mandalorians, but close.

_ shev’la verd - silent warrior _

_ Ori’verd - big warrior _

_ kute – flightsuit to which Mandalorian armor is attached _


	14. I Don't Drink, But I've Been Meaning to Start

“ _He’s just so perfect.”_

_ Ona smiled and stretched out next to her brother on the bank of the river. All of the initiates were her brothers and sisters, but she had formed a special connection to Illiam when they were still children. At fourteen, they would both soon take the final trial and become Monks of the Blood, and then their opportunities for stealing away for an hour while the masters were on a job would disappear. Until then, she was happy to have one more pleasant afternoon with her brother of choice and enjoy breaking the rules in however small a way. And perhaps she could help Illiam at the same time. _

“ _Perfect? I don’t think so.” She glanced across to the opposite bank, where trees hung low and dragged their branches in the river. Another initiate had arrived while Illiam had been busy trying to catch a fish underwater. The_ _newcomer_ _had stayed in the shadows, so Ona had not pointed out his presence to Illiam._

“ _Then you are blind, Ona.”_

“ _His hair is funny.”_

“ _It is blacker than midnight.” Illiam sighed, dreamily, eyes closed._

“ _His nose is too small.”_

“ _He has beautiful features! Like a delicate carving.”_

“ _His Dancing Bird kata is sloppy.”_

“ _His Striking Snake is better than yours.”_

_ Ona flicked her gaze over to the boy hiding in the shadows. “He smells weird.” _

“ _What?” Illiam laughed at the same time another voice erupted from the water._

“ _I do not!”_

“ _Oh. Aus,” Ona had said deliberately while Illiam stared, open-mouthed and blushing. “We didn’t see you there. Would you like to join us?”_

“-join us? Ona?”

“Mmm.” Ona could feel the dream slipping away. The sensation of warm sun on wet skin was fading, to be replaced with cool water and fading light.

“Ona.”

The sharp, deep call of her name, much closer than it should have been, startled her awake. She surged to her feet, water sloshing out of the tub, and faced the open doorway prepared for an attack. A huge man stood there in his bare feet. Long pants were loose around his calves and tight across his thighs. A thin linen shirt was buttoned up to his neck. It wasn’t until her eyes got to his face that she relaxed, the sudden rush of adrenaline still making her heart race.

“Paz,” she said stupidly. She wondered where he had gotten the clothes. She wondered why he had taken off his armor. _Could he even?_ She hadn’t thought so, but apparently it was only his helmet he could not remove. She wondered why he was staring so intently at the ceiling. _Because you are naked in front of a man who would rather die than reveal even his face._ Ona blushed and abruptly sank down to her knees. The water splashed onto the floor again and she crossed her arms over her chest. “Did you...is something wrong?”

“No.” His voice sounded odd, like he was breathing heavily into the modulator. “Marta asked me to bring you this.” He held out a dark red robe. “You didn’t answer when I knocked so…”

“I must have fallen asleep. Thank you. Just, ah, just leave it there.”

He turned his back and she watched him gently lay the clothing out on the bed. Without his armor and the thick, duraweave clothing he usually wore under it Ona could make out the play and bunch of muscles. Whatever training Mandalorians underwent, it was surely much more focused on strength and eating protein than her own had been. The results were quite nice to look at. 

_Quite_. _Nice_.

“There is a meal. Downstairs. I’ll...I’ll be in the hall.”

Ona waited until she heard the outer door click shut to step from the water. It was quick work to dry herself. Marta had left out oils for her, but Ona had never used anything like that before and did not want to keep Paz waiting. She was glad she had combed her hair right after washing it so that it had dried a bit. Her fingers twisted the long mass into a simple plait. The tail brushed against her shoulders; she was sure it would leave a damp spot on the borrowed robe. Ona took only a moment to admire the thickness of the fabric and the series of ties on one side that would keep it closed before opening the door. Marta ran a good inn - there was no betraying squeak of hinges.

Paz was leaning against the opposite wall, staring at his feet. His hands were on his hips as he muttered to himself.

“- _gana’pel. Val linibar mirjahall_ -”

“Mando?”

He straightened. “Have a...good...time?”

“Yes,” she smiled and was grateful they could ignore how she must have embarrassed him earlier. He sounded awkward, but it was considerate of him to ask. Ona could not remember the last time someone had wondered if she was enjoying herself. Pleasure was not something expected nor sought since she had been an initiate. “We had a sonic at the monastery, and of course I have been swimming, but I’ve never had a bath before. You look like you had one too? And did Marta steal your clothes as well?”

“A shower. She means well, and we are safe here. You’ve really never had a bath?” He turned and started toward the stairs, keeping his stride slow enough that she could easily keep up.

“No. The monastery used to have pools beneath it for bathing and laundry, but the Hutts had them drained before I was born to divert the river to an industrial granary complex.” The stairs were narrower than the corridor, and his shoulder brushed her arm as they descended. “Do you have baths at the,” she paused, hoping she was using the unfamiliar term correctly, “...covert? Or just standard refreshers?”

“The current covert has sonic showers, although in the past we have had several with more elaborate amenities.”

“Oh. I...think I misunderstood when you were talking about it on the ship. I thought covert was a Mandalorian home?”

“No. It is…” He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and loosely grabbed her arm to pull her in front of him. “We do not generally discuss such things with outsiders.”

Ona felt her face heat. The last thing she wanted was to violate his boundaries. “I shouldn’t have asked, I apologize.”

“Do not be sorry. I... _haar’chak_.” He squeezed her arm lightly. “Save your questions for when we are alone.”

Ona couldn’t help but smile. A life debt was binding. Not unlike adoption or marriage, it tied two people together through the offering and the acceptance. It was good that Paz realized that. A warmth, beyond what was inspired by his understanding of her culture, settled low in her belly at the thought that he did not consider her an outsider, even though Marta - who had clearly known him for much longer - was. He gave her a gentle tug, his hand slipping from her arm to hover at her lower back as they followed their noses to food.

A long table stretched down the center of the kitchen, several sturdy, backless stools placed randomly at its edges. The surface was loaded with dishes that made Ona’s mouth water. She recognized a jar of Jhle honey, and a basket of pale bread rolls, and some kind of fish, but most of the food was alien and smelled better than every delicious morsel she had ever eaten - combined. Marta harangued Paz for the sorry state of his clothes while Ona had a bowl of rich stew filled with a meaty sort of fungus and dark red berries that exploded with a sharp herbal flavor when she bit into them. Paz asked after the inn business and handed a roll slathered in nut butter to Ona before dishing a whole, pink fish onto her plate with a dollop of green-flecked cream. The fish was lightly salted, flaky, and so tender it melted on her tongue. The cream balanced the salt and left a fresh taste in her mouth. She didn’t hear most of the conversation as she licked her fork clean.

“...told them not to come back. I certainly don’t need the credits and even if I did that sort would be the last I would have stay under my roof. Girl!” The sudden bark directed at her had Ona sitting up straight and turning her face, bracing for reprimand. Marta’s voice gentled, sounding odd and raspy, “Do you not like my food? Why are you not eating?”

Ona let out a breath and forced herself to relax. She wasn’t sure why she had reacted that way. Marta was not a threat. The woman’s voice returned to its usual brashness, directed at Paz. “Mando, why is she not eating? Her plate is empty. Do you not let the girl eat? No, not those ribs, only you like that spice. I don’t even know why I made it - I should throw the whole packet out.” Marta continued, getting up and bustling around the kitchen to fetch more food for the already groaning table.

“All right?” His voice was soft and low. Ona watched his bare hands, the skin dark and smooth and mesmerizing in the way that seeing it felt like a secret, almost like voyeurism. She breathed in, settling her nerves and concentrating on a scar at the base of his thumb. He filled her plate again, this time with dark rib meat, slices of an orange, firm-fleshed fruit, and a pile of delicate green and dark pink vegetation that glistened with clear sauce. The unfamiliar intimacy of it, his hands over her plate, his low voice, the silvery scar across his skin, it pushed back the sudden fear and resignation that had overcome her.

“Yes.”

“ Eat up,  _ shiib verd’ika. _ ”

Marta let out a coarse bray of laughter. Ona looked up from the table in time to see the older woman watching Paz with a wide grin. The helmet revealed nothing, but he scooted his stool much closer to Ona’s, so that their arms brushed.

“If you cannot take the harsh treatment from our hostess any longer, you may hide behind me. I will bear it, if I must.”

“Harsh-!” Marta viciously poured more fermented honey milk into Ona’s cup and began stacking a tray with plates and bowls piled high with all manner of foods. “If I were kind to you, it would slide right off your metal shell you ungrateful lobster! If I did not stand my ground and demand you listen to reason you would walk all over me like you do _shev’la_ _verd_!”

“No one has ever walked all over him,” Paz snorted. “No one but you, Marta. It is why he does not come to visit, he’s afraid that you’ll scrub under his nails and then make him do nothing but sleep and eat like a lazy Hutt.” Ona stuffed her mouth with meat to prevent herself from laughing. She didn’t know who they were talking about, but she would very much like to. The meat that Marta had insisted she would not like was biting and sweet with a lingering burn that made her eyes water and her hand reach for the milk.

“Are you saying _shev’la verd_ is not sleeping? Are you telling me this, Mando? I told him to take care of himself. I told him that…” It went on for another hour. Marta would wind down and take a few bites of food and start issuing orders and pointed questions directed at her or the Mandalorian. Paz would redirect her by mentioning their mutual acquaintance, _shev’la verd_ , or one of the other locals. Marta would then insult him and push more food on them both. By the time Paz was directing Ona back to her room her face hurt from smiling and her belly was stretched to the limit.

“I see why you come back here, despite the treatment.”

He huffed out a short laugh and lifted the tray Marta had shoved at him higher. It was loaded with half of everything the innkeeper had made for dinner. “Maybe I come here because of the treatment.”

Ona turned, smiling still even though her cheeks were sore from it. She leaned her back against her door. “You know, I think you do.”

“Am I losing my mystery?”

“Don’t worry, _ori’verd_.” She noted how he cocked his helmet to the side and wondered if she had pronounced Marta’s nickname for him correctly. “It will probably take the rest of my life debt to unravel you.”

“ _Ori’verd_ ,” he placed the emphasis differently than Marta had. “It means ‘big warrior’.”

Ona smiled wider, delighted to learn some of his language. “She couldn’t come up with anything less obvious?”

“Are you saying you’d be better at it?”

She considered it carefully, feeling happy and relaxed and safer than she could ever remember - all because this man had given her freedom. And then he had shown her how sweet it could taste. Her limbs were loose and so was her tongue.

“Half-spirit.” The words came out of her mouth before she could second guess herself.

“What does it mean?” He was leaning on the wall next to her, his head bent her way. If she stood on her tiptoes he would be able to rest his helmet against her forehead. She blinked up at his visor, seeing the dark pools of her own eyes reflected back at her. “Half-spirit, why call me that?”

_Because you made me a whole person._ Ona’s cheeks flamed with horror, suddenly realizing what she had called him. “Ah, it’s a, it’s someone who causes your life to change. For the better. Like,” she hoped her ancestors would forgive her for lying about something so important. “-meeting them makes your own life better.”

“ _Riye_.” He took a half step closer and suddenly Ona felt crowded. “In Mando’a, that is _riye_.”

“See you...see you in the morning. _Riye_.” Ona slipped into her room and pressed her cheek against the cool wood. She listened to him, breathing on the other side, for a long moment before he moved away. She forced herself to wash her face and hands, clean her teeth and prepare for bed, certain she would not be able to sleep as she turned the horrible ending of a wonderful night over and over in her mind. _Why did I say that?_

A half-spirit made one’s life better, because they were one’s other half.

_ *gana’pel - have patience _

_ Val linibar mirjahall - She needs to heal from emotional trauma _

_ Shiib verd’ika - skinny little warrior _

_ shev’la verd - silent warrior _

_ Ori’verd - big warrior _

_ Riye - favor, benefit, good turn, a person who changes lives for the better; sometimes used as an endearment _


	15. Wafer Thin

Paz methodically ate his way through the mounds of delicious food Marta had prepared, but he tasted nothing. He did not understand the pull Ona had gained over him. Like a knife to a magnet, if she was there his eyes followed her. If she was not, he felt like he was spinning, searching for a direction.

In the quarter century or so since Paz had first discovered that there might be something more interesting about females than males, he had never been so attracted to an individual. He had had sex. Some good, some bad. He thought fleetingly of the liberal Mandalorian that had been attracted to his Vizsla name. _Some undeniably, horrifically regrettable._ He had never given a moment’s consideration to letting a woman near him without his armor on. He had never spent an equal amount of time thinking about a woman’s smile as what physical pleasure they could have together. He had never worked so hard to make another person laugh. He had never worried so much about the health of a specific person. He had never had his blood thicken, his skin tighten over hearing a simple word.

_ Ori’verd. _

The Mando’a in her mouth made his gut clench. He had been called as much many times. Singled out of a group of trainees by a teacher: _a volunteer, you - big warrior_. Din, making fun of him in his brother’s dry way: _and what now, oh big warrior?_ Marta, accusing and insulting and trying to differentiate two young Manadalorians in their indistinguishable durasteel armor: _you said he was a warrior, what does that make you, a bigger warrior?_ Something about the way that Ona had said it made him feel she wasn’t just noting his height or the breadth of his shoulders. It sounded like she was pleased with his size. Like she found it attractive, not just useful for deflecting blaster bolts or carrying supplies. _Haran_ , she didn’t even know what it meant. He hadn’t know that he would like it.

_ Riye. _

Paz had liked hearing her call him that, too. He hadn’t lied, exactly. In Mando’a, the word described a turn of good fortune or a person who seemed to bring the same. Older couples, the few who had survived the fall of Mandalore with both _riduur_ alive, also used it as a term of endearment. It was a tame thing, appropriate for even the most conservative to use in public to show that another person had been a changing point in their lives, the most significant positive thing to happen to them. He felt a bit guilty about how much he enjoyed having her call him _riye_. Of course he had been the best thing to happen to her - he had cut off her slave collar. Who wouldn’t view freedom as the turning point in their lives? She had not intended it the way he had received it.

Paz finished his food and slipped on his helmet to carry the empty tray down to the dark kitchen and wash his dishes. He checked the doors and windows. Everything had been locked up tight, and the security system he had installed for Marta after her husband had died was armed and working properly. He listened outside the innkeeper’s room, assured that she was sleeping deeply, and then headed upstairs again. He had to force himself to not stop at Ona’s door to listen to her breaths, feeling that it would somehow be a breach of her privacy after the intimate moment they had shared.

_You thought it was intimate,_ he chastised himself. _She thought it was just a nice conversation_. Her smile had been so wide, her thin cheeks high and flushed, her eyes wide and dark with- _Alcohol,_ he sternly assured himself. _She probably had no idea how much was in that ithone milk Marta was giving her._

Paz prepared for bed. He reminded himself to ask Marta to make some soothing tea and perhaps plain bread in the morning. Ona was going to have a _haran_ of a hangover. He stared at the dark ceiling for over an hour, remembering her smile and the way her lower lip plumped around the Mando’a word for big. He ended up having to tuck his hands under his head to keep from attending to the warm tension low in his belly.

Ona did not, as it turned out, have a _haran_ of a hangover.

She was already at the table when he came down into the kitchen, listening to Marta expound on the best way to season fish and why her jam was better than anything for sale in the market. Those scentwood eyes turned on him and she gave him a small smile. His gut clenched all over again. He was grateful for his laundered _kute_ and polished armor creating an insulated layer around his inappropriate train of thought.

“You look well rested,” he offered her as he sat down.

“As do you. And so clean!” Ona grinned, sniffing exaggeratedly at his shoulder while Marta snorted. There was no way the skinny little warrior could smell anything but the cold beskar of his pauldron but she still exclaimed, “I’d been thinking you were half-krayt dragon all this time!”

Marta laughed harder, almost missing the pan with her eggs. “I like this one.”

“ _Ni’balyc_ ,” he said softly, breathing in her own clean scent. It wasn’t the soap he kept on the ship, but something spicier. It made his mouth water. He sat back abruptly, shocked to notice he had leaned into her space without realizing. “Do you have any more fish, Marta? This one needs to put something in her mouth to keep from insulting her betters.” He winced as soon as the words came out, but neither woman seemed to read anything into it.

“Betters?” Marta snorted. “She hasn’t insulted me, so I don’t know who you could be thinking of. Here, go eat this.” She set a tray of toasted bread, greens, poached eggs, and spicy relish before him. “And you, Girl, I told you to finish that fruit. Are you trying to leave me with a house smelling of spoiled food? Do you want me to get vermin? Chop, chop!”

“Yes, Marta.” Ona popped a large orange wedge into her mouth, the juice dotting her lips. Her cheek bulged out comically.

“See? Manners. Humph. You could learn something from this one, Mando. Pay attention.”

Paz picked up his own food to return to his room without replying. He intended to pay attention. Close attention. He wasn’t sure that he should, be he was certain he couldn’t stop.

_ *Riduur – spouse _

_ haran - hell _

_ Ni’balyc - me too _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, people of the interwebs, we are getting so close to the punchline. It seemed like a long way to go for a joke, but I enjoyed writing it - and interacting with all of you - enough that now I wish I had dragged it out longer. Too late at this juncture, I suppose. Only two more chapters to go!


	16. Body Language

The trip to their meet up with Paz’s friends was cramped, but interesting. Cramped because Ona was sandwiched into the small space behind the pilot seat completely surrounded by supplies, weapons, extra food Marta had pushed off on them, and the Mandalorian’s jetpack. Her seat on the metal strongbox was made marginally more comfortable by the addition of a thick, charcoal-colored cloak that Paz had given her.

_ It’s cold on their ship _ , he had said, as if that explained everything. It certainly did not explain when he had found time to purchase it without her seeing or why he had felt the need to get her additional clothes at all. Then again, she wasn’t sure when he had bought half of the bundles jammed around her feet and legs. She had asked, but he had only shrugged under his freshly laundered  _ kute _ and armor and then peppered her with questions about the planet she had grown up on and the training methods of the Blood Monks. The Ona of a week prior might have been fooled into thinking  it was idle conversation . The Ona of now had heard him wax poetic about his five favorite blasters and the situations to which each was best suited. She was aware that Paz did not do things on a whim. She was aware that his money, efforts, and time were expended to defend his people, contribute to the prosperity of young Mandalorians - foundlings, he called them, defend himself, annoy his friend, and eat. In that order. She had seen the bare skin of his hands and the silver scar that he hid from the rest of the galaxy.

Ona was not fooled.

Ona was interested. Interested and amused and often confused by the huge Mandalorian who sat in front of her. Once they had entered hyperdrive he had turned his chair to face her and scooted it as back until it bumped into the console. His long legs took up most of the scant available space. Ona nudged him with her toes, trying to get him to make room. Finally, she just propped her heels up onto his thigh. The plate of his cuisse was not exceptionally comfortable, but it was better than being cramped.

“I put a few lessons into the datapad,” he said, handing it over to her. She didn’t have to stretch, his fingers were already within six inches of her torso. Ona could not imagine how anyone bigger than her could ever travel with him.

“More letters? I think I know them all. Except the last three.”

“I know. I came up with some simple sentences for you. It will help you remember, and help you learn to guess words and sounds. It makes picking up language from context easier.”

He was right, and they spent the first hour reading together, with Ona sounding out the words. Paz had written only things pertaining to food and fighting to make it more relatable, she supposed. By the end he had her typing out her own short sentences. She liked using his name. It helped her remember _Zerek_ , since his name ended with it. It also amused him.

“Paz flies his ship with guns, food, and a monk. It is sad that Marta does not fit too.” He was quiet for a moment. “This is excellent work. You are a fast learner. But you spelled this word wrong.” He leaned out of his seat until his helmet was nearly touching her face and pointed at the datapad. She could hear the smile in his voice. “Good is spelled _grek-onith-onith-dorn_.”

Ona’s brows furrowed. “I didn’t-” Then she saw where he was pointing “That is not very nice. You’d hurt Marta’s feelings.”

“See? It is good that she doesn’t fit. Try again.”

After another hour, they exchanged reading lessons for fighting lessons. Ona found herself enjoying being the instructor, and Paz was a good student. It was difficult in the small space, but many of her most useful moves were small and designed to pinpoint force in a targeted area. She found herself blushing under his honest admiration of her style.

“The way you use your opponent’s size against them is impressive. I have never seen anything like that flip you did in the cantina. Where you used your ankles to…” he cleared his throat and shifted in his seat, as if the trip was becoming uncomfortable for him. “That was something. _Gar iviin ni’tal_.”

“What does that mean?” Ona could speak Huttese, Basic, and enough Rodese to know if her client was about to have mercenaries sent after them, but nothing else. “What language is that? Mandalorian?”

“Mando’a,” he corrected quietly. “It is a part of our culture. My Creed requires that I speak it. All Mandalorians must.”

“Can you teach me some?” She hesitated then. Marta obviously knew a few words - at least nicknames for Paz and his friend, but not enough to converse. She had known that Mandalorians were secretive long before she had ever actually met one. That knowledge along with their reputation as deadly fighters in impenetrable armor was drilled into initiates just as facts about most potential opponents were. Paz had reinforced that stereotype of keeping personal facts to himself, but he had also implied that, unlike Marta, she was not an outsider. “If that’s...if that is permitted.”

“ _Ner gaan'arir cuyir umaan meh gar uram cuyir yaihi'l be mando'a._ ” His deep intonation sent a thrum up her spine. The words had a heavy rolling sound, both strong and lyrical. “It is not...forbidden.” Before Ona had a chance to question that selective phrasing, he continued. “Mandalorians are a warrior culture. Much of Mando’a reflects that. _Verd_.” He waited for her to repeat it. “Warrior.”

“ _Verd_ ,” she said again, carefully. “Like _ori’verd_? So _ori_ means big. What is _shev’al_?”

“Silent.”

Ona felt another smile twitching her lips. “Big warrior and silent warrior?”

“Careful, _shiib verd’ika_. Mando’a is a serious language, it should never be used to tease.”

She swore she could hear the laughter in his voice. “There is that word again. What

does that mean?”

“You will have to learn enough Mando’a to find out.”

Ona straightened her back and pulled her feet in to sit cross legged on the strong box. “Go ahead then. Teach me.”

_ *Gar iviin ni’tal - you make my blood race. _

_ Ner gaan'arir cuyir umaan meh gar uram cuyir yaihi'l be mando'a. - My control is hard kept if your mouth is full of Mando’a. _

_ Ori’verd - big warrior _

_ shev’la verd - silent warrior _

_ Shiib verd’ika - skinny little warrior _


	17. Safety Dance

Paz had not been lying when he said he questioned his ability to control himself when she spoke Mando’a. It wasn’t that he thought he would suddenly lose all sense of honor and force his body on hers. First of all, he was not an animal. Secondly, he respected Ona - as a person as well as her fighting prowess. Finally, there was not room for that sort of thing in the Miy-iil. Not unless they were extremely desperate and exceptionally determined. Paz would prefer to have the time and space to truly enjoy Ona if-

He closed his eyes under his helmet and pushed those images away. He had no business thinking those sorts of thoughts until he had decided what he wanted. And even then, those plans would have to stay firmly under a beskar lid unless Ona indicated the same desires.

“ _ Beskar’gam _ ,” she repeated dutifully.

It was his head, and possibly other less logical organs, that he worried might be completely lost to reason. Speaking Mando’a was part of his Creed, one that he had not been able to use aside from a word here and there since the Armorer had sent him on his mission. Teaching it was a pride, a pleasure, to most Mandalorians. Although such activities had been exclusively reserved for foundlings, Paz was immensely enjoying sharing this part of his culture with Ona. It was as if he was bringing her into his society, expanding the circle of Mandalorians that had been dwindling since the fall of Mandalore.

The way her cheeks hollowed on the ‘o sound made his gut clench.

“Mandalorian armor. We call it that even if most pieces are made of a beskar alloy, or even another material like durasteel. Beskar is so rare now that there isn’t enough for all of use, and few have pure pieces.” He tapped the cuirass over his chest, enjoying the dull ring of it as he always did. “Earning enough to make chest and back plates was the work of several years for me - and many battles.” He was proud of what he had done for the Tribe to earn his beskar. And, in hindsight, honest enough to admit he was a little jealous of how Din had managed to get his hands on so much with just one job. _But mine was never in an Imperial forge,_ he reminded himself. It was nice not to have the reminder of the Empire strapped to his body. He wasn’t sure how Din managed; then again, Din’s parents hadn’t been killed in the same battle that stole all the beskar reserves from Mandalore.

His pre-set alarm went off. Paz carefully extracted his legs from the mess of supplies and returned his seat to face forward. It took a few minutes to check all of his systems and ensure that they would exit hyperspace at the correct coordinates and on time. The moment his hands left the controls he felt a warm breath against the sliver of bare skin between helmet and collar. Ona’s hand patted against the center of his chest, right over his heart.

“What’s it called?”

He almost said  _ kar’ta _ , before he remembered they were talking about armor. “ _ Hal’cabur _ .”

She repeated it with the same drawling accent she had been using all morning. He knew he should break her of it, but he liked how unique it was to her. Smooth, like the way she moved in battle.

“This?” She tapped his shoulder.

“ _ Bes’marbor _ .” His mouth was dry.  He had not been this worked up over a female since before he had earned his cuisse.

“And this?” Knuckles brushed against his helmet. The touch was nowhere near the lower edge; he knew she would not remove it, but still his pulse kicked up a notch.

“ _ Buy’ce _ . Never touch a Mandalorian’s helmet.” The final alarm pinged and she sat back in her spot with a sound of apology. He flipped switches to prepare for normal space. “Not unless you are invited.” He didn’t know why he said it. The mere idea left him uneasy and twitching with adrenaline. None in the Tribe removed their helmet after they had taken the Creed. None. For any reason. Even the few followers of the Way that did not follow the most strict interpretation only took off their helmets for their closest family. Their children. Their  _ riduur _ . 

Unless the Way had changed.

Paz really needed to talk to Din.

He did not get his wish immediately. As they exited hyperspace and he rechecked systems a real-time communication came in, encoded with one of the many security measures Paz himself had put into place.

“...come in, Miy-ill. This sounds stupid,” a woman’s voice was saying, not quite directly into the comm. “No, I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth. I’m just saying I don’t think you talk like this either when you are...then why don’t you run the kriffing comm and I’ll fly the ship!”

As unsurprising and hilarious as it was to catch his favorite crew in a one-sided argument, Paz interrupted.

“This is Miy-iil. Knock sense into anyone today, Green?”

“Blue! Not yet - but the day is young. I hope you are hungry, I have sweet rolls rising and all the ingredients for you to make that stew.” Her voice grew faint again, “Because you don’t even like – because I prefer my nutrients on a plate instead of formed into a brick!” A string of multi-lingual expletives so foul came over the comm that Paz had to mute his end so he could gasp in shocked laughter without interrupting. Whatever Din had done to piss Suvi off, Paz could not wait to find out.

“What is she-” Ona began but Suvi’s voice returned in stiff and staccato Basic.

“I’ve cleared out most of the bay for you. Mind the crates secured in the corner. Your nose to my starboard, please.” New coordinates, just a few minutes away but too far to see with only the visual enhancements in his helmet, came over the transmission.

“Copy that.” Paz was still chuckling as he switched to manual control.

Ona was quiet, but leaning forward against the back of his chair as the BT-5 came into view. Paz could sense her curiosity, her focused attention as she took in the small transport ship. The hull had some new carbon scoring from the last time he had seen it, and a gouge along the port upper wing that looked like it needed a lot of work. Din had complained, quietly, that the BT-5 was not as maneuverable or fast as the Razor Crest had been, but it had its advantages as well. It could go farther on its fuel reserves. It had actual bunks and a fresher big enough that Paz didn’t have to wash one leg at a time. And its cargo bay was a separate level from the quarters and work spaces, allowing it to be sealed and vented so that the entire bottom of the ship could lower. Planet-side, that meant the bay floor was basically a huge elevator that descended to the ground for loading and unloading and then tucked right back into the ship. In space, with a small fighter and a good pilot, it could be used as a hangar.

“Are you going to- you can’t be serious.” Ona’s fingers put enough pressure on the cushion of his chair to make it squeak.

“My friend is a decent pilot. He’ll hold it steady.” Paz lined up, easing gently on quarter maneuver thrusters only.

“You are not going to fit in there.”

Paz barked out a shocked laugh. “ _ Gebbar guitar jatne _ . Don’t distract me.”

She fell quiet, although she kept her death grip on his seat back, while he carefully slotted his ship into place. It was a tricky maneuver. Paz was a good pilot, better than most, but he would never have even considered it if the BT-5 weren’t under his brother’s control. Din was one of the best. He remained hovering as the cargo bay was retracted, keeping the Miy-ill centered. Once the BT-5 was sealed, he extended his landing struts - just halfway to give him enough headroom to open the canopy fully - and cut the engine. Ona let out a shaky breath behind him.

“It will be a minute until the pressure and atmosphere are regulated and then we-”

Her face appearing next to his helmet cut him off. Paz blinked in surprise at the sudden closeness of wide, dark eyes and cheeks that had lost all their color.

“You are a brilliant pilot.” He didn’t get a chance to bask in her praise before she finished, “Don’t. Kriffing. Do. That. Again.” She settled back into her spot with a heavy exhale. “Spirits.”

Paz was still smiling under his helmet as he went first up the ladder and stepped into the main level of the BT-5. He gently set down his satchel and offered his arm to Din to clasp.

“ _Vod_ ,” Din greeted him quietly.

“ _Si’cuy_ ,” Paz returned before roughly shoving Din aside to offer his arm to Suvi. Din made a show of slowly rocking back as if Paz had hit him hard enough to throw off his balance. Paz rolled his eyes under his helmet.

“Blue, have you been staying out of trouble?”

“It’s not all that hard, Green. Would you like to know the secret?” He hunched down, getting his helmet as close as he could to her face without touching her. Paz waited there for a moment, watching from the corner of his eye as Din’s spine went straighter than a beskar arrow. He smirked and lowered his helmet just a fraction more – in no danger of touching Suvi’s head,she was too short, but Din still fisted his hands. “I stay at least two systems away from your partner. All the excitement is attracted to him and misses me entirely.”

“That would be completely believable,” Suvi smiled slyly. Her green eyes flicked to Din, who was widening his stance and turning to face the ladder. “If he hadn’t told me any stories about you.”

“Him?” Paz gestured with his thumb. “Telling stories? Talking? Voluntarily? I don’t believe it.”

“You must be _shev’la_ _verd_ ,” Ona spoke up behind him. Din’s shoulders tilted slightly with surprise. Paz straightened but did not turn, allowing Din to see that he had no qualms about giving her his back.

“And you are?” Suvi was still smiling, although her eyes had lost their sparkle. Her gaze was assessing as she let the question hang. 

Paz winced under his helmet.  Perhaps he should have explained that he was bringing someone with him. However, h e hadn’t wanted to talk about this  over a holo – hadn’t known exactly how to explain the situation in any case. He had hoped that Din and Suvi would  simply accept the presence of a strange outsider .  He had known it was a fool’s wish from the beginning.  Din was reliably uninterested in small talk or learning personal details about anyone he wasn’t being paid to hunt down. Suvi however...Suvi was Suvi and while Paz loved the woman for her cooking and her deft hand at obtaining resources and information and the way she purposefully, joyfully irritated Din, she was not one to let details slide.

“I am his guard.”

Paz sighed.  There was no way they wouldn’t make him explain that. Suvi’s smile widened. He could  _ feel  _ Din’s eyebrows shoot up under his helmet.

“Where are your weapons,” the other Mandalorian asked in a flat tone.

“The data-” Paz began, trying to salvage the meeting and get them onto more pertinent, less awkward topics than his accidental life debt acquisition. He had wanted to talk to Din about it, but not in front of Suvi. Definitely not in front of Ona. 

“My body is a weapon.”

Suvi let out a choked laugh and clapped her hands over her lower face. Din put his weight back onto his heels, tipping his helmet first at Paz, then at his new companion. As much as Paz wanted to feed the skinny little guard and convince her that her debt was repaid and possibly more than that, he would have gladly thrown her out an airlock at that moment. And Din too. Probably not Suvi. He could smell the sweet rolls she had already made.

“Your body...is a weapon.” Din’s slow statement hung in the recycled air of the BT-5.

Paz put his gloved fingers lightly on Ona’s spine and gently forced her toward the bench and table, brushing past Din without responding. Although she was whispering to Din, Paz couldn’t help but hear Suvi’s dry comment and repressed laughter.

“As a Mandalorian, would that make it a religious experience?”

Oh. _Oh._ Paz’s fingers flexed against the layers of cloth over the toned muscle of Ona’s back. He had not thought of it that way.

“Don’t you have something you need to be doing?” Din’s exasperation with his partner made it through his modulator, as did a hint of amusement.

Paz did not have the headspace to  listen to Suvi and Din’s conversation. He was too busy trying not to remember the way a black-clad figure had twisted and spun in mid-air, breaking an attacker’s neck.  _ Her body is a weapon.  _

His  _ kute  _ was suddenly, uncomfortably, tight.

  
  
  


* _ Beskar’gam - armor _

_ Kar’ta - heart _

_ Hal’cabur - cuirass; chest plate armor _

_ Bes’marbor - pauldron _

_ Buy’ce - helmet _

_ Riduur - spouse _

_ Gebbar guitar jatne - Snug is best _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was a long way to go for a dumb joke, but I was willing to do it.


End file.
